Jolly Twist of Fate
by RachyBaby09
Summary: What if Erik lost all patience and chose for Christine? What if he turned the grasshopper…and it hopped jolly high? And what if the genius had miscalculated? Solely LEROUX. Dark & desperate! E/C.
1. The Scorpion or Grasshopper: which?

_(a/n: Begins during Chapter XXV of Leroux's novel. Erik forces Christine to make a critical decision: turn either the 'grasshopper' or 'scorpion.' He assures the grasshopper would blow up the opera house along with a good portion of Paris; the scorpion would flood the cellar, drenching the gunpowder, eliminating the explosion…but sentences Christine to be Erik's living wife._

_I really hope you enjoy! It's a dark, soulful phic. Read a couple chapters, see what you think! xoxo._

_Disclaimer: All credits belong to the source of my inspiration, Gaston Leroux. I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. But I do own my crazed obsession.)_

* * *

_CHAPTER I: The Scorpion or Grasshopper: which?_

The Opera Ghost really existed. And he was on the verge of blowing Paris half to Hell.

"The scorpion or grasshopper: which? You must make your choice, mademoiselle. Time is against you."

Christine Daaé bit back her boiling tears as she glared at the madman who stood lifelessly before her. He had only known 'life' as a dead man. He _was_ a dead man, cryptic in both his spirit and form. It was over the despairing years which Erik had rightfully distanced and disconnected himself from humanity. Bitter, vengeful and dangerously cynical, he began to take a morbid delight in reciprocating its hatred. Erik had grown tired of the human race and all of its cruelty. He wanted no such part of it.

Erik had thrived as a ghost, while dying as a man.

Decade by decade, revelation by revelation, Erik had unmasked humanity's fatal flaws. First hand he had discovered the horrific and ugly truth. Indeed—the Good Book had not lied; humanity is created in God's image. Its God is deceiving. Its God is flawed. There is no Final Judgment. There is no valley of rest, no sheepherder who guides and guards the soul…no holy staff which wards off injustices and evil.

To have it more eloquently phrased: the human race's God is nothing greater than an evil genius.

Erik's most painful regret was not having discovered this inevitable truth during his boyhood. Oh, the heartache which he could have been spared! As for time…time seemed to make this ultimate reality all the more devastating. Quite often, its potency depends on the length of elapsed time. All Erik had was time. And one must get used to everything in life…even til eternity.

Now, it was only Christine Daaé who could restore Erik's faith in humanity. Christine's love would redeem Erik and all of mankind.

A minute passed by…then another. Both the grasshopper and scorpion remained untouched.

Christine's eyes wildly shifted from the grasshopper to the scorpion…from the scorpion to the grasshopper… and back again. Erik stood behind Christine—intimately near—arms folded across his chest and posture straight as an arrow. Christine's height barely reached Erik's shoulders. He towered over her, emaciated and ghoulish—holding the regal air of a vengeful God.

Christine trembled and uttered a despairing cry. Never had she felt more helpless…more hopeless! Erik was making a final descent to Hell and dragging Christine alongside. She was drowning within her fallen angel's desperation.

This was it.

Christine neurotically chewed at her bottom lip; the metallic flavor of blood filled her jawline. Her breathing grew shallower and shallower.

It was all rather ingenious. The scorpion meant 'yes.' The grasshopper meant 'no.' The grasshopper would trigger an awesome explosion…igniting the gallons and gallons of gunpowder which dwelt down below. Paris would be blown halfway to Hell. The scorpion would drown the gunpowder and Christine would be eternally doomed as Erik's living wife.

She was trying his patience. He would not have it.

Erik's throat pumped like a furnace, voice roaring like thunder, "If, mademoiselle, you do not choose in two minute's time, I shall choose for you! And remember—a grasshopper not only turns; it HOPS! And it HOPS JOLLY HIGH! I give you one minute to spare your maiden blushes."

A nasty chuckle erupted! The monster's voice swelled the torture-chamber. The Voice was everywhere. It merrily perched amongst the iron tree's limbs. It waded through the distant oasis. It reflected off of the six mirrors. That terrible, beautiful Voice was inescapable!

Raoul blinked away tears which clung to his lashes. His hands grasped together in a desperate, final prayer. Raoul implored God; Nadir implored Allah.

And the grasshopper…

The grasshopper meant death and destruction for a goodly number of the human race. The scorpion promised life and redemption.

Erik raised both of his cloaked arms in a handsomely majestic gesture. "Your choice, mademoiselle?"

Beyond the reflective walls of the torture-chamber, Nadir and Raoul's voices cried out, competing for poor Christine's attention and clashing in panic:

Raoul cried out, voice pitifully cracking, stubborn words laced with a melodramatic and delusional passion."The grasshopper, Christine! Death shall not dare separate us! Forget it all—turn the grasshopper! Turn it round!"

"Neither! Choose NEITHER, Christine! Neither is to be meddled!"

Christine was suffocating. "Ah! You will not have the scorpion? Then I choose the grasshopper!" Christine planted both hands to either side of her head, screaming, shaking like a poor leaf.

Erik snarled and shoved Christine far from the two bronze figurines. His eyes of gold spat fire of Hell! Christine wailed and shriveled to the floor, fallen beside Erik's boots. Her teeth chattered together like tin cymbals.

"HOP, GRASSHOPPER, HOP!"

The genius had miscalculated.

There was no great explosion…and a quarter of Paris would certainly not be grounded…as Erik had so passionately declared. Erik cursed between clenched teeth and a gritted jaw. Where was Erik's rest?

There were only flames. And it all happened so quickly.

A magnificent fire ignited. Alas!—the gunpowder had failed poor, unhappy Erik!

It was glorious! A fitting end to the Opera Ghost's love story! Erik's underground tomb transformed into Hell! Indeed, the house on the lake was Hell in all its glory. And Erik—this abused demon, madman, opera ghost, and fallen angel—was Lucifer in the flesh!

Raoul and Nadir coughed and groped at their heaving chests. Their frail bodies collapsed to the floor. They wormed pitifully about, fidgeting, fighting for life. But their efforts were in vain; thick, black smoke crept into the torture-chamber…climbed up the reflective walls…pace slow and tedious.

_Cackle! Cackle!_

The terrible, terrible flames chanted their incoherent curses!

_Cackle! Cackle! Rumble! Rumble!_

Oh! What horror! Christine cried out, drowning in her tears. Her porcelain complexion paled to a ghostly hue. She looked dead. Christine fled from the Louis-Philippe bedchamber.

Horror! Horror! Horror!

The torture-chamber was set ablaze! Raoul and Nadir were blanketed by flames.

_Cackle! Cackle!_

Trembling and barely breathing, Christine fell to the crutch of her knees and cried out. She cupped her heart in vain. She could only watch in despair as Raoul and Nadir were sacrificed to Erik's madness.

"Oh! Raoul! Raoul, my love! My heart's love!"

Christine's pretty face fell forward, curls of gold sweeping across the floor; she wept into her palms.

Had Raoul become a martyr? Had Raoul died for humanity's sins? Had Christine's sweetheart died in tragic love?

_ Gurgle! Gurgle! Rumble! Gurgle! Rumble!_

What…what was the noise? Erik's terrible tricks never seemed to rest.

_Gurgle! Gurgle! Rumble! Gurgle! Rumble!_

Erik's entire underworld quaked! A strange rumbling swam beneath Christine's feet.

_Trickle! Trickle!_

Water flooded and filled the torture-chamber. The flames were overpowered and snuffed, as they succumbed to Nature's gentler element.

Back within the Louis-Philippe bedchamber, Erik grasped his heart in vain, struggling to breathe. For a fleeting moment, the slightest flash of humanity consumed Erik's tortured face.

The water level was vastly rising. Soon enough…the torture-chamber had become Raoul and Nadir's watery graves. It was their underwater tombs.

Beyond deranged, more dead than alive, Christine struggled to her feet. She clutched her skirts and raced to Raoul with futile steps. Christine's legs began to betray her, as she lolled about like a drunken fool. She pitifully resembled a baby fawn who was attempting those first, unsteady steps. Exhaustion claimed Christine at last; her slender body gave way. She spiraled down to the stone ground in a graceful dance.

A pair of elegantly cloaked, skeletal arms shot out and broke Christine's fall. Erik pulled her into his cold chest—tenderly clutching her as one cradles an infant. Erik's adoration for Christine not once faltered…even despite her rather uncharacteristic profanity, vile curses, and manic squirming.

Indeed—their separate hearts would have beaten in a perfect unity…had they embraced as lovers.

Christine…

She felt so weightless. Within Erik's arms, a golden sea of curls tumbled down to the musky floor in flawless ringlets…rosebud lips trembled…and sapphire eyes glared up. Erik's chest swelled against her; she looked so beautiful. His beloved Christine Daaé; a sliver of Heaven…resting within his arms.

"You—you let me go! You wretched demon! You vile MONSTER! You terrible thing of HELL!"

Christine kicked, screamed, clawed, and bawled. Such antics could only remind Erik of her youth. "Enough! ENOUGH! Wicked child! Your tantrum shan't do you any good."

Erik sighed and steadied his distressed damsel. Christine could not help but morbidly marvel…his strength was uncanny! How could such a grotesquely thin man have such power? At very best, he resembled a rotted and decayed corpse.

Beneath an elegant fan of lashes, Christine's widened eyes peered up at her unhappy monster. She cringed and turned away. Christine was struck by fire! How it burned! Her oceanic gaze was overpowered by Erik's burning eyes. She screamed. She tried to escape…but it was no use. Erik flinched in response. His hold loosened up… the slightest bit.

He was so, so, very ugly! As exquisite…as beautifully divine…immaculately flawless that his voice was, Erik's face was equally hideous. Erik resembled a rotted corpse, thing of Hell and tortured man quite nicely.

Christine screamed once more. Unconsciously, Erik echoed Christine's heart wrenching cry, pressing his hand to her lips. Christine's cry was absorbed by the terrible and pasty white palm. She gawked and threw her head back. That hand—that hand smelt of death!

"Insolent child! Quiet! Quiet you! You wailing siren! You shall ruin your voice!" Erik's hand snaked around her vocal cords, snugly wrapping the shaft of her throat. Hissing between his teeth, "You shall ruin MY VOICE."

She could not stand it a moment longer! Christine wished for death!

She nipped at Erik's hand. Like a wounded mongrel, she had bitten him in defense.

Erik slid his fingertips from Christine's quivering lips. A deep growl inflated his lower abdomen; Erik's bones rattled and reverberated against little Christine in a fearsome requiem.

"Go on! Go on! Go on! Bite the HAND THAT FEEDS, why don't you! Go on, my dear!"

Fresh tears cascaded down Christine's flushed, ivory cheeks. Victim to a weeping angel, Erik's arms suddenly weakened—and Christine managed to claw free of his hold.

Christine crawled away on her hands and knees; with a simple and suave gesture, Erik's fingers coiled around each of her tiny ankles, pulling her to him. Her fingers pawed and scratched at the musty floor in vain. "My dearest, there is no escaping THIS! YOU are ERIK'S!"

He collected Christine in a handsome motion, tossing her back into the cocoon of his arms…_bridal style._

"Christine, beautiful songbird! Yes! One must get used to everything in life…even till eternity!"

Erik turned and made for the Louis-Philippe bedchamber. A dark realization came over her. Christine's intuition whispered her fate.

"N—N—No! Release me! I shall die before wedding a monster! FREE ME! For pity's sake—LET ME GO! I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU, ERIK! NEVER!"

Erik tossed Christine over his rigid shoulder. She clenched her fists in two, tightly wound balls, pounding at Erik's back. She scratched…she clawed…and scratched some more. A hot waterfall of tears rained down Erik's back in unrelenting streams. The material dampened, plastering the fine silk to the heat of Erik's flesh. Soft ringlets were glued to Christine's perspiring forehead in an erratic flurry; all others fanned over Erik's repulsive face in a tempting curtain. Oh, how it tickled something awful! His deformity was entirely foreign to touch.

Erik was foreign to Christine's touch…

He groaned and pulled her beautiful hair aside. It was far more than the smitten man could handle.

One more tortuous moment and Erik was certain he would have dropped his beloved. And such a thing would be deserving of death.

Erik made haste.

"I shall die before consenting to be your wife! YOU MONSTER!"

He showed no emotion, moving with the grace of a ghost.

"Madame, the scorpion has spoken. Behold! Erik shall have himself A LIVING WIFE TO CALL HIS OWN…at long last!"


	2. Erik's Living Wife

_CHAPTER II: Erik's Living Wife_

Docile as a lamb, Erik tossed the fighting girl over his rigid shoulder without effort. And, like a madwoman, Christine madly kicked, clawed and screamed. She hissed her passionate words of hatred, fists pounding repeatedly into his back. Erik merely sighed, continued his vain pursuit and shrugged away his darling's futile tantrum. It was all quite useless; Christine was an impossible, pouting child.

Erik eased his clutch and deposited Christine into her Louis-Philippe bedchamber—remaining equally gentle.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Erik brushed away the wrinkles of his finely tailored dress suit—which Christine had managed to severely crease. After all, he had to remain perfectly composed if he was to win the affection of such a beauty.

Christine's ocean of tears dried. She glared up at the monster of a man. All sadness and heartache was subdued; now, only hatred dwelt within the sapphire depths of her pretty eyes. Erik returned her pungent stare—which was notably softer then her own—his arms crossed snugly over the expanse of his emaciated chest, posture stiff and far from natural. A strange and distant kindness lined his fiery gaze; it was _almost_ loving. Her flesh tightened around her bones, as Christine shivered beneath his powerful and penetrating stare. It burned.

The two troubled creatures stared dumbly at each other for what seemed to be an eternity. Her madness was vastly rekindling…Erik saw. She was fit to kill…Erik knew.

Christine was an abused mongrel, angry eyes flickering her warning. Her barred teeth clenched several times, as she neurotically chewed at her bottom lip. Erik approached Christine, his pace graceful and tedious, as he attempted to make his peace. He outstretched his pasty palms as he came forward…as if approaching a spooked horse. Erik was hauntingly composed, visibly threatened by his lovely and distressed damsel.

He was quite certain she would strike. Deciding it wisest to allow Christine her space, Erik took several steps back…then several more…granting her the illusion of freedom. She was doomed to be Erik's living wife…until death did them part. There would be plenty of time to get better acquainted—Erik inwardly contemplated. Her breathing fell more and more shallow, and Erik soon feared for her health.

Shaking from head to toe, between strained and choked breaths, "Oh, how very right he was! You—you wretched monster! You terrible, heartless demon!" Inching towards him with a newly found strength, fists clenched at her sides, "You disgraceful fiend! A wretched shame to the 'human race' is what you are!"

Erik sighed deeply. Her hurtful words and mockery slid from his back; never had he been a part of humanity, nor did he intend to ever be.

Muttering coolly between his corrupt lips, his handsome voice hauntingly composed, "Erik's bride seems rather agitated. A nice nap would do her good."

Christine lunged at him, unable to stomach the madman a moment longer. His bony hands caught her wrists midair. Erik's inhumanly long fingers coiled around them, enveloping them completely. They were so cold, so lifeless, so very corpse-like! The very hands of Death! Christine pulled back as a loud cry spilled from the chamber of her throat. Erik loosened his hands instantly; heaven forbid! His strangling grip had pained his dear beloved! Curse him! He captured one of her tiny hands and drew it against the aged leather of his lips, exhaling a long shudder. Erik planted an apologetic kiss to each of her knuckles, head shaking to and fro, to and fro. He immediately despised himself with a deepened passion.

She scowled down at the disturbing advance and fell away. Christine vainly attempted to free herself from the abominable nightmare. Her eyes squeezed impossibly shut—as if she might escape from Erik that way.

"Oh, my beautiful Christine!" Bringing her hands down to his waist, pulling down on them with a rough affection, "Erik curses himself! For, should he ever hurt his Christine—why, he might as well shut himself in his coffin for all eternity!" Erik tenderly massaged her sore wrists, his chest inflating and deflating with constricted breaths.

Christine managed to mutter words, only half in mockery, "Oh! Would you, please?"

"I am afraid not, mademoiselle. Erik has found himself a living wife! No longer is there much need for his coffin."

Christine's lovely, pale blue eyes widened as she spat on his mangled face. Erik lifted her hand up, gingerly wiping away the steaming spit from his ugliness, breathing a shallow sigh.

"How perfectly un-lady like of you, mademoiselle! Perhaps, Erik shall teach his Christine her manners?"

Christine wailed, terribly frightened by the connotation of his monotone threat. He cringed; never had Erik's musical ears met a more disturbing sound!

"Manners, monsieur, are to be reserved only for a gentleman! Which you are far from!"

Erik suddenly released Christine, strangely affected, profoundly hurt by her words. He dropped to his knees, melodramatically clenching the material of her skirts, pleading, a few tears descending from those glowing orbs of gold.

"And I shall be the finest of gentlemen, only if you shall let me, Christine!" She couldn't help but pity poor Erik. Her poor, poor, unhappy Erik.

His bleeding heart shed everywhere as he continued, crying a bit harder. "I—I love you, Christine! Let me serve you…let me be a man! Yours, yours, only yours!" Clenching her skirts impossibly tighter, "Allow me to be a man whom such beauty, as yours, deserves his love to be returned!" Chancing a tentative look up at Christine, "I would gladly die a thousand deaths, if I only knew you would have me!"

Christine couldn't respond to his desperation. Her voice had been taken away. Torn from her chest. It was all too strange, too tragic, and far too difficult for Christine to continue hating the broken man with such deep passion. For the first time, Erik had referred to himself in the first person. What could this mean? But she winced, finding Erik's polar mood swings to be more than a little unsettling. She peered down hesitantly as Erik hid his terrible face within the sullied lace of her skirts.

Words such as 'gentleman' and 'beauty' could only lead Christine's thoughts back to Raoul. Poor, poor, beautiful Raoul!

Stammering, tears running anew, "Erik! You—you—you killed him! Murdered him, in coldest of blood! And rightfully sentenced yourself!"

Erik groaned and bellowed like a wounded beast. Back in third person, "Oh, Christine, Christine, Christine…it was never Erik's intent!…do believe your loving Erik!" Confirming his complete lack of sanity, "It was the SCORPION'S, it was!"

Christine mentally kicked herself; for, even now, the Angel of Music's voice was…intriguing. Even, dare she think…dangerously seductive.

"Oh, you terrible madman!" Mad or not, at least she referred to him as 'man,' Erik acknowledged. "Why, I'm quite sure your wretched grasshopper would have done just the same! Burn, burn, burn!"

Far too collected, "No, no, my silly dear. It was Erik's grasshopper which brought him to you! To his living wife."

Erik stood, wobbly on his feet. "In any matter, my songbird, even the fairest of angels burn from time to time."

He stepped back, taking a moment to soak up his bride's beauty in its entirety. Such perfection could send any man to tears. And, through Erik's smitten eyes, she was nothing shy of perfection. This angel's heavenly kiss might have very well ended Erik. His lantern-of-eyes narrowed on Christine's blood-red, parted lips. How they clashed against her creamy skin so flawlessly! Erik wondered their taste…sweet as the nectar of a honeycomb, he was certain. But he cursed himself from such an unthinkable fantasy. Angels and demons do not court. Erik's soul blushed at this thought.

Christine wrinkled her brow with distaste, noticing Erik's suggestive stare. His very _humanely_ interest. It could not be denied; the monster before her was proof of humanity. Flesh and blood evidence of human emotion. Impulse; the blinding force coined as 'love.' Angst, hatred, love, fear, desperation, and heartache: this is what stood before Christine Daaé.

"Avert your wretched eyes! Monster!" Erik did as asked.

Compared to this lightless prison, Hell would be Heaven. She welcomed Hell. In Hell, there was light…

"Oh! Kill me, kill me, kill me!"

"Never! Erik would not imagine it! Why, you mustn't ever ask such a DEED of Erik!"

His roaring voice and rich purr sent a chill up Christine's spine. It wrapped her thumping soul without mercy; threatened to devour her. It was terrifyingly…beautiful, she confessed. Christine HATED the face of the voice. Oh, how she loathed it!

In fresh tears, "Then…perhaps, I shall do so myself!"

Christine looked the deranged man up and down, helpless, childishly vulnerable. Settled within the material of Erik's mighty cape was…something. A long, long…something which was wound circularly. Half curious, half suspicious, Christine grabbed at this something. Her hand withdrew at contact. It stung! What ever hidden wonder was nestled in the sly demon's clothing was anything but smooth. It was what could only be described as sharp…bristly?

"AH HAH!" The cynical creature growled. Then, like the madman he was, Erik spoke to it. "We meet again, do we?"

Erik tore his Punjab-lasso from his chest, dangling it before Christine's wide-eyes proudly. A crooked grin fell upon his ghastly lips, as Erik boasted all the confidence of the world. He stayed true to his infamous name, from long ago…he remained loyal to Persia's beloved and missed 'trap-door lover.'

"It's quite magical, you see, my dear. HENCE, Erik's MAGICAL lasso!" Bringing his high hands low, suddenly ashamed, "Oh, but, my dear, you shall not see such magic. Erik knows not much of this human race's nature—but he supposes 'its' gentlemen doesn't perform such tricks…" A painful sigh emerged from the depths of his tortured soul. He gave a small and defeated pout. "And I intend to be a docile lamb, even a fine gentleman…for my Christine."

"Just maybe…I shall kill you!" She wondered what sort of 'tricks' Erik had once performed. She wondered what made this horrid thing 'magical.' Huffing, she finished her threat,"As you did to so many!"

Erik returned his preferred-choice-of-weapon to its humble home. Between a sad sigh, "You forget, my dearest Christine…beautiful song bird…" Erik turned away, head low, spirits lower, leaving Christine's new bedchamber. He locked it with a shiny skeleton key engraved with a death's head. Christine's fists pounded at the door until they bled. "One cannot kill a dead man."


	3. Sunday at Last

_CHAPTER III: Sunday at Last_

Two dark evenings passed over the deranged newlyweds. Christine refused to leave her bedchamber, no matter how desperate Erik's pleas were. It was no secret. She passionately despised the face of the voice.

Erik made several attempts to lure Christine out—none of which consisted of entering her room. After all, reminding Christine of the grotesque monster, who reigned over her, was far from wise. But Erik was sure to peek into Christine's quarter every so often—making certain she had not ended her miserable existence…as she so foolishly attempted three nights prior.

Christine lay in the elaborate bedsheets, only half alive, staring mindlessly at the ceiling…seeing nothing.

A rich, haunting melody jolted Christine from her sedation. Behold—Don Juan Triumphant! The dark, seductive melody seemed to devour her whole. It suffocated Christine; it challenged her womanhood with its venom. She was utterly drawn towards Don Juan's beckoning call…hypnotized, aching to pursue the powerful music…

Erik pounded at the organ's keys insanely, frustrated, cursing the human race and its cruelty. Cursing the God—who ceased to exist. Condemning Raoul—the gentleman he could never be. Christine Daaé—the woman whose beauty he was undeserving of. But mostly himself—the demon who had sentenced Erik to Hell's fiery and inescapable pits.

Christine stood stiffly several steps behind Erik, eyes wide and face blank. She was barely able to make out the bothered creature's profile…

Erik tore the mask from his hideous face and dropped it at his heels. Both hands rested lazily against his uneven flesh. Erik's fingers sunk into his tarnished skin, madly clawing at its damaged surface. He dragged his fingers across the brutal terrain…raking at its infertile ground. A pitiful cry escaped his throat. It was a cry of despair, angst. His gross face seemed to have grown immune to any pain…any touch. Had it?

With each terrible, passing moment, Erik's trembling fingers dug deeper and deeper into his ugliness. They vanished into his face. Magic! Blood seethed from the flesh—vile proof he was of the living. Erik's terrible cries quickly melted into a disturbing chuckle. He laughed. Oh, how he laughed! Surely he would perish from such amusement!

He laughed some more!

Christine fell queasy at such a horrendous display; she was unable to stifle back her shriek.

Erik rotated, turning sharply towards the inquisitive little thing. Those sunken, yellow orbs glowed terribly within his death's head. Christine stumbled backwards, scream lost to her throat, glassy eyes never parting from the foul monster.

"Leave me be. I am indecent." She obeyed her husband's command.

Erik rose with a painful sigh, tying the mask around his fatal flaw. Erik collapsed at his organ; he found himself sobbing and laughing all in one breath.

* * *

'Tap, tap, tap!' The sound of a walking cane knocked at Christine's shut door in a charming melody. Erik's lovely voice followed after.

"Madame! Why, it is Sunday, my little songbird!"

Was it Sunday? Christine did not know. For, in Hell, time ceases to exist.

Addressing Christine's bitter quiet, "My lovely Christine! Erik has gone through much trouble preparing a delightful picnic, he has! Surely, you shan't deprive your husband the pleasure of taking his wife out on a Sunday outing, should you?"

What was this madness? Words such as _husband_ and _wife _could only trail her thoughts back to those of Raoul. Christine's poor, loving Raoul! Christine's tears fell anew; but they quickly dried.

The irritated door groaned; Erik tossed it open with a painful sigh, a haunting grin stretched across his grotesque, malformed lips. Erik scanned the bedchamber with his fiery gaze. Christine stared at him dumbly…the rather delusional, rather pathetic display before her…

There Erik stood too proudly, clutching a walking-cane, a basket, clinging close to his chest, top-hat grandly upright. Christine was speechless.

Erik out held his gloved hand, demanding and determined. "You must come now, with your Erik, Christine love!" Christine shook her head violently, making her point far from subtle.

"Never! You leave me be! Oh! You—"

"Now, now, now, now, now!" Erik growled uncivilly, his heavy boot stomping in a fierce tantrum, drowning out Christine's jabber.

"Christine…Christine Daee…" Erik breathed in a purr.

Her name slid off his tongue deliciously. Christine's spine wildly stiffened, half from fear, half from the morbid ecstasy of Erik's voice.

"You obey your husband's needs, you do! Erik puts a roof over your pretty head," Gesturing the swaying basket, "Food! Erik has prepared a most delightful brunch—for, Sunday— it has come at last, and you MUST accompany your husband!"

It couldn't be denied; Christine was starved. Very, very hungry. She eyed the perfectly normal basket. Straw, a thin cloth covering its hidden goodies. Suddenly, her appetite fled quickly as it came. Christine's stomach churned and cringed, constricting painfully. She met eyes with the far-from-normal man standing before her.

"You come now! Before a rain comes! For, it is mid-winter, and surely destined to pour something terrible!"

Roaring, "NOWW!"

His skeletal fingers wrapped her entire wrist, pulling her intimately close. She jolted upright, breaking free of the madman, despising his chilly touch! His dead touch! Christine returned to the comfort of the sheets, eyes glistening, harnessing back her destined tears. She recoiled backwards—Erik slithered toward her, hissing like a serpent, tempting her with the music of his voice.

She was cornered, wounded, alone, and being hunted. Completely alone, completely at Satan's mercy!

"It's Sunday, and Erik must escort his madam, as any fine gentleman should!" Again, Erik reached out for her, only to be coldly pushed away.

Beyond frightened, Christine obliged, slinking past the disturbed creature. His terrible, golden eyes seemed to burn through her flesh, piercing her very soul.

"Ah! Much better, dearest! That's a good girl…" Erik's incoherent words trailed off mindlessly as he hooked his arm around her own. Erik pulled Christine eagerly in the trail of his spry steps.

His twisted lips curved deviously. It suddenly dawned on Christine…

Hopeful, "We…we are to go outside, are we, my…Erik?…" Perhaps, this would be Christine's escape from hell and all its demons!

"Why, yes, you silly girl, you!" Madly chuckling, amused by himself, "Whom ever does have a picnic NOT outside? Hmmm…?" Erik gasped, shaking his downcast head. Releasing her arm, he removed his cloak, bony fingers wrapping Christine in its oversized material. "There we are! Erik mustn't let his living bride catch a cold! No, never would he! Live! You MUST LIVE!"

Erik came to a sharp halt, standing in an intimidating archway with a startling, "Ah hah! Here we are!" Signaling forward, suave and almost gentle-men like, "After you, madam…"

Christine followed the direction of his outstretched, skeleton arm. Immediately, she stood stunned. How did they possibly reach the outdoors…never leaving the catacombs? It was all too bizarre. Her new surroundings resembled Erik's lovely African Forrest quite well—minus the overbearing heat and tortures. This wasn't a mirrored illusion. No, it was, in fact, something far worse…far more disturbing…far more torturous!

Erik grinned at Christine's awe as only a child would. She twirled about gracefully, observing the wondrous forest and all its glory. She glanced up, up into a towering tree. But, Christine stumbled back, tripping over her sweeping skirts—a large owl stared down at her morbidly, yellow eyes wide, ready for the hunt.

Following the distinct trail of her haunted gaze, "Oh! Do not mind such creatures, Christine! Although rather threatening, rather appalling, simply monstrous!…such creatures can be quite gentle, you soon shall see!"

Erik strutted proudly to the tree, twirling the walking-cane within his inhumanly long fingers, not a care in the world. He leaned against the mighty trunk, rhythmically tapping at its branches with the cane.

"See, see! The foul creature before you—it does not budge, it does not! Erik should assure you! No, no, no! Oh, but it hoots something wonderful…" Imitating an owl's hoot while lecturing, "See, see, Christine, see! A charming voice, the little devil possesses, isn't it! Oh, quite lovely, is it not? WHOO, WHOO! WHOO! Oh! Erik's lady adores such a voice, doesn't she! WHOO! WHOO!"

Christine turned on her heel, disgusted, pacing forward. Escaping the delusional man. Just maybe, Christine would soon fall as mad as Erik. Madness is much like gravity; all one needs is a slight push. Being condemned to a chamber of such flawless illusions…accepting your damned fate could come quite easily.

Christine stopped dead in her tracks after several strides; a large, stuffed wolf glared back at Christine. Its snout was curled, growling viciously—yet, at the same time, remaining perfectly harmless.

"GRROWWLLL!" She could have sworn the beastly noise came from the wolf. But it was from a more frightening beast. Erik!

Erik's lips tightened in dismay. Scolding and threatening the wolf with his cane, "No! You mustn't growl at Erik's Christine! NO, curse you, you terrible fiend! Be gone!"

He collapsed to the leafy flooring, pulling Christine down, seating her adjacent to himself. "Erik has protected his little wife." The soothing melody of a babbling brook caught Erik's attention.

He shot up quickly, damning himself beneath his silky breath. He sprawled a black, satin sheet across the flooring. "Oh, dear! Christine—your lovely dress! Has it been ruined? Drenched beyond all repair! Oh, dear! Dear, dear, dear!…How Erik yearned to make his madam's picnic lovely in every which way! You must forgive Erik…he is not yet accustomed to caring for another!"

Christine's fingers probed the faux forest floor. Perfectly dry. Erik gently rolled her onto the satin sheet, clicking tongue rhythmically. Erik half-grinned, enjoying his first Sunday picnic. Savoring his beautiful angel and all she offered.

His elegantly rich voice wrapped Christine's dying soul, taking it as its own. It pulled her beneath its blackened wing. Complete absence of light.

"Ah! See, little songbird! Such a lovely day for a Sunday outing!" The basket groaned as he propped it wide open. "Why, it doesn't look like rain at all!"

Offering Christine fruit—a rosy apple, "Erik's bride enjoys herself, does she?"

Taking the tainted fruit from his grip, she could only manage to weakly nod.


	4. Newlyweds

_CHAPTER IV: Newlyweds_

The Sunday picnic was a dreadfully painful process for Christine. The newlywed's afternoon rendezvous was far from relaxing or tranquil, unlike most conventional Sunday picnics. Not even the babbling brook's soothing melody, or the exotic 'bird's' charming calls could have eased Christine's tangled nerves. It was a horrific, rather morbid, affair that Christine wanted absolutely no part of. It was unfortunate for Christine that Erik had never experienced something quite so marvelous.

Christine kept perfectly silent, perfectly still; she inwardly concluded that would sit through Erik's elaborate picnic, quiet and docile, humoring the madman. She would remain cooperative and gentle to Erik's desperate needs…much like a lamb. Yes, she would force herself to be patient—to allow the delusional creature a taste of 'married life.' Just a teasing taste. After all, if anything were to calm the wretched beast of a man…surely it would be the slightest sense of normalcy.

Erik's grim words, from three evenings ago, were inspiration for Christine's sly and clever plan:

"_I can't go on living like this, like a mole in a burrow! Don Juan Triumphant is finished; and now I want to live like everybody else. I want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays. You will be the happiest of women. And we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight…_

_You are afraid of me! And yet I am not really wicked. Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself. If you loved me I should be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do anything with me that you pleased."_

If Christine's freedom would be at the cost of a handful of miserable Sunday outings so be it. When all was said and done, she would have escaped from the monster's cruel wrath. She would let him drown within his own miserable tears, and take delight in doing so. Erik had stolen her Raoul_…_her one and only love. She had been left completely alone, orphaned and abandoned; nothing would be a greater satisfaction than condemning Erik to his rightful solitude. But, first, Christine would need to grin and bear it.

It would be the price for her freedom, though the currency of kindness was something which was steadily coming in short supply.

An inevitable and slight wave of guilt crashed through Christine. Several months before, she had loved the poor creature dearly. It was an unfathomable and mutual love… something which the human race could never begin to comprehend. But…she had loved her Angel of Music, her maestro; she had grown to loathe the face of the voice, the man, Erik. Angels do not deceive, do not condemn, and, most definitely, do not torture. This clearly was the workings of Satan. Or a ravaged madman…perhaps, both.

Christine could not suppress an inward sigh any longer; love and hate really were exhaustively much alike. Some say, to truly hate someone—and with the most _passionate _form of hate—you had to have once loved them.

Death was no longer an option for Christine; Erik was a dead man himself. She wished him to be perfectly_ alone. _'Until death do you part' would not do. It was really all quite mindless. Never had they exchanged vows…nor united as one before God. And, yet, Erik held Christine Daaé to all which was holy in marriage…at the same time, disregarding its sanctity entirely. The man's prison was an interesting paradox.

She prayed the picnic would help calm the storm that was Erik. Christine even believed it might have helped ease Erik's harsh grip on her leash. Christine stroked her clever genius, grinning inwardly. Christine believed things were about to lighten. Christine believed things were about to turn to her own advantage. For, surely, things are darkest before the dawn. Three nights prior, the darkest had fallen. Christine Daaé believed that her dawn was surely on its rise.

Christine Daaé could not have been more wrong.

* * *

Christine sat stiffly on the black sheet, legs uncomfortably crossed, her posture far from natural. She nibbled at the crimson apple in puny bites. Christine had lost her appetite entirely. Being surrounded by deceased woodland critters stuffed to their very fullest, whilst sitting in the midst of a monster's madness tends to do that to a person.

Erik's leer told Christine he didn't approve of such poor bites; she forced herself to eat just enough apple—just enough to keep the monsters away.

"Christine, Christine, CHRISTINE!"

Christine jolted wildly from the sudden surprise of his voice, the apple fleeing from her grip. Only moments before, Erik had severely scolded her for such un-lady like posture and conduct; now, his voice could not have been more chipper nor merry. And, mere moments before that, Erik had passionately demonstrated the calls of over thirty bird species…all thirty species, Erik had passionately lectured, which were native to _this very_ _forest_…

"Oh, dear! Silly, silly, Christine love! Why, you have dropped your apple, little dear!" Erik collected the fruit from the leafy flooring, using the basket's cloth to gingerly wipe away the non-existent, imaginary dirt. "Ah hah!" Smiling from ear to ear and handing Christine the polished apple, "Much better, hmmm…?"

Christine forced a small nod.

"Where was Erik?—Ah, yes!" A rectangular shaped gift box appeared in Erik's deathly grasp, almost by magic. He outheld the meticulously wrapped package for her taking, a genuine grin stretching his sunken and grotesquely malformed lips.

When she refused to accept, "Christine! Erik has bought his lovely bride a WEDDING GIFT, he has! Oh, dear, dear…he has gone through much trouble…"

Had she forgotten his gift? Erik gave a subtle, private cry. Of course she had not. He was undeserving, and she…deserving of Heaven and everything which it seemed to offer. He wished, with such a painful sincerity, that he could reward his sweet Christine with the perfection such beauty deserves.

But he was in no state to take chances nor dramatic leaps of faith—just in case, "Oh, dear!…you feel badly for not thinking of your Erik, isn't that so? You shan't! Why, he intends to shower his living bride with endless wonders! You best become accustomed to such spoiling!"

Christine pulled the offering from his skeletal hands a bit too roughly; she winced as that terrible grin stretched impossibly more. She had made him happy. Christine seemed rather eager…

Christine held her breath as she removed the perfectly normal lid from the perfectly normal box, expecting inside to be a perfectly abnormal wedding gift. Perhaps…a stuffed house cat…or something morbid of the sort.

Behold:

Christine's tight expression smoothed; the gift was far from abnormal. Quite honestly, it was sickeningly cliché. Isabella Beeton's 1861 etiquette guide, _Book of Household Management_, stared back at Christine mockingly.

The three-ton, bible-like book consisted of fourteen chapters. Within these fourteen chapters, laid dozens of stuffy guidelines newlyweds must abide by…if they wished to survive the 'honey moon' phase, that is. Overall, the dreaded thing contained a grand total of 2,751 rules for successfully running a proper household.

Erik tore it from her hands in a state of triumphant. He flipped it opened to a chapter marked by a satin ribbon. Christine casually noticed that this particular chapter was entitled, 'Things Not to be Forgotten at a Picnic.'

Christine grimaced; Erik had done his homework.

He scooted intimately near to Christine; she immediately crawled backwards, loathing such closeness. A bit shy, but equally eager, Erik slithered towards her, book still in hand. Again, she backed away several scoots from the man; and again, Erik seated himself beside her new positioning. Christine surrendered to his determination, deciding this musical 'chairs' could go on all afternoon. She didn't have all afternoon to spare.

Erik smoothed out any wrinkles in his fine suit, clearing out his musical lungs with a sharp hiss. He chanced a look at his pretty Christine, ignoring her unhappy expression. Oh, she was just so, so lovely…

Erik read aloud from the chosen chapter in his rich voice, never prouder:

"Gentlemen must be reminded of the more delicate nerves and anxieties of women. Consider to pass on a picnic site overlooking a cliff: While selected for its spectacular view, if set too close to the cliff's edge, it would undoubtedly raise apprehensions for the ladies and cause them distress."

Erik paused his reading, his eyeless face scanning the 'cliff-less' picnic site he had brought her to. He nodded a slight nod of satisfaction. Almost smugly, he read further, glancing at Christine every few words:

"Likewise, gentlemen are urged to guard against seating ladies near to anthills, or on ground that is especially uneven or rutty—as it would be most uncomfortable for the lady."

Christine's sapphire gaze observed her eerie surroundings; she longed to be accompanied by an anthill—rather than by the large, stuffed bear seated adjacent to her, savagely returning her glare.

Curtly, "Christine…no anthills! NO anthills to be seen, love!"

Christine rose weakly from the ground, not able to stomach another moment. Such insanity would surely be the end to her.

Through a forged yawn, "I…I am most exhausted…I think I shall retire…"

Erik rose also, hissing a frustrated, "No, no, no, no…" He latched onto Christine's fallen arm—she jerked back in horror; the chilly, silk of Erik's glove had ironically seared her flesh.

Erik threw Christine a cross look, unhappy with his bride's disobedience. He smirked inwardly; tonight, he would be certain Christine read Chapter I of _Book of Household Management: 'The Mistress.'_

"Oh, dear! Erik had almost forgotten—look, my lovely songbird!" Tasting hope and finger pointing, "RULE NUMBER 666! BEHOLD RULE 666, SWEET CHRISTINE!"

Christine narrowed her eyes, reading the brief passage that rested above Erik's extended fingertip. The 666 rule of a fine gentleman's etiquette:

'_666. A plan of proper entertainment is suggested. If a gentleman has a musical talent he might think to bring along to the picnic the instrument he plays—if it be possible—and perform for the picnic party, or serenade his lady-friend.'_

Rather stupidly, "…you…brought your organ along…did you?"

Christine scorched a hellish, crimson red after seeing Erik's dumbfounded reaction to such a question. But, he soon chuckled, adoring his blushing bride's innocence.

"Sweet songbird…it does instruct 'if possible'…an organ, quite certainly, dear love, could NOT be possible!"

Christine hadn't any idea why, but, she found herself blushing fiercely—yet again—at Erik's playful choice of words.

Sweetly, "No, little Madam, no. An organ wouldn't be an _appropriate_ choice as well, Erik fears. Although most lovely, its melody is one which is quite grave…" Chucking, amused by himself, "Why, Erik shan't serenade his lovely Christine with the 'Requiem Mass!' No!—that calls for a deathly affair, you do agree, songbird?"

Christine couldn't bring herself to nod, for, she had never attended an event which embraced death more openly than this Sunday outing. Not even her Papa's funeral had been so grim.

And, with that, Christine's thoughts trailed to her beloved Papa. Back to the beautiful music he had often comforted her with. Christine closed her eyes, returning to these better times. A violin's somber wailing filled her little ears and mind; for the first time in countless weeks, a soft smile claimed her lips.

Christine forced her eyes open, and her thoughts back to the dark reality of her fate. To her astonishment, the beautiful, familiar music didn't fade with her memories. No. It grew grander and more exquisite than ever before. Not even her Papa had played _this _very song—this composition, which he himself had passionately created—so wonderfully…

Her soul fluttered at the heavenly sound; a few crystal tears swam down her ivory cheeks.

Her heart couldn't help but soar into the bounties of Apollo's Lair.

The Angel of Music stood gracefully before Christine, playing a violin with flawless melody, the soothing song caressing and calming her. Perhaps, despite his every human flaw, Erik really was the Angel of Music. An Angel of heaven? Most certainly not. An Angel of divinity? Far from it. But an Angel of music?

Just maybe.

* * *

_a/n: Fun fact: Isabella Beeton's 1861 etiquette guide, Book of Household Management is a real book, which is really published… that really contains 2751 'guidelines'… and its chapter one is really entitled 'Mistress.' : )_

_Also, at one point, I used the phrase 'eyeless face' as opposed to 'yellow eyes' because, apparently during the daytime, Erik seems to have two black holes…as opposed to eyes! Spooky!_

_Oh—I dedicate 'RULE 666' to the infamous 'LOT 666.'_

_BIG hugs!_


	5. Don Juan Triumphs

_CHAPTER V: Don Juan Triumphs_

Christine lay lifelessly across the satin sheets, preparing for another sleepless night. Her restless evenings seemed to grew infinitely longer. She could feel her spirit fleeting from her very flesh; in a matter of days, all Christine had come to know only ghosts and demons. The young soprano was weakening, falling into the comfort of despair's lap; for even despair has its own calms. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute…Christine Daaé was gradually withering away. She was mutating into Erik's undead wife.

This terrible underworld truly was a torture-chamber. Complete absence of light; therefore, eliminating all concept of time. Without time, without sunrises and sunsets…the world stands still. This is what happens when an immovable object joins an unstoppable force.

Christine had become a prisoner of Erik's inner war. She sobbed into the pillow's comfort; was she to lose all sense of herself? Succumb to Erik's madness completely?

The Sunday outing had been, by far, the most exhausting and terrible activity of Christine's nineteen years. She felt she had doubled her age in a few hours' time. The madman's insanity was the most frightening, most pitiful, and most damning thing she had ever knwon…so dark and so disturbing! So unnatural, morbid and twisted! Such desperation is what only the most brutal nightmares are composed of.

And, yet, this damned hell seemed to be laced together with a thread of innocence. And such a delicate stream of innocence it was…noticed only by those with the most sensitive of souls. It could not be denied: Erik would forever carry a child's appeal. His one taste of hope and promise of manhood was a remarkable fantasy world…a world created by himself…for himself…designed within the bottomless depths of his imagination. Erik's underworld was his playground. Christine Daaé was his lovely plaything.

Fantasy…that magical, vivid domain of oblivion.

It's no wonder that the Scandinavian origin of Erik's name is 'eternal ruler.' He humbly claimed it was given to him on accident, for, he hasn't an identity. An accident…or, better yet, a manipulated destiny?

Erik's disturbing realm of illusions was much like hell; a blackened pit of despair, the brilliant mastermind of all its glory being Satan in the flesh. Yes, that wonderfully sly serpent, who slithers about the forbidden garden, ravaging upon chaste flesh…preying on those most vulnerable and innocent of mortals. It's the tragic myth of bestowing sin to the sinless, condemning the living with an irrevocable curse. The human race, now sullied, left in Satan's burning palm, putty to his hands.

Yet, within Hell's darkest hour shines a faint glow of light. The Angel of Music plays his flawless song, and for a passing moment, only beauty is left in the world. Even the wretched, woodland beasts seem to resurrect from such a promising melody. Erik's mask… that terrible shell welted to its death's head… that mask constructed of white, yet lacking purity entirely…elegantly sets aglow when accompanied by its fellow angel. Death's head ceases to be death's head; the ironic whiteness softens to a gentle hue, transforming into an Angel's purely beautiful—yet, expressionless, face.

Somewhere beneath this doomed corpse, beneath Erik's ghostly façade, lays a dead man never put to rest.

How does the voice of God's purest angel emerge from Satan's twisted lips? Is beauty truly skin deep? Is physical beauty just that—a heartless, outward image, disregarding the soul, completely? How much power does our skin reign over us? Does it simply mirror our soul? Perhaps, _mask it?_ Is hideousness a torture chamber? Yes…a torture-chamber with only one hope for escape, a single shard of promise for sight outside the cruel, one-way glass: self-destruction.

In the end, who is to pay the costs for casting such a wicked curse among the living?

* * *

Beyond the shut door, outside the Louis-Philippe bed quarters, echoed a soothing melody. So beautiful, so hypnotic. Christine knew it was Erik, her scorned Angel of Music, serenading himself…Yes, he was very much committed to a rather intimate, rather sensual, love affair. He and his music created beautiful things, arousing sensations in anyone brave enough to listen.

Erik's captivating music became more powerful, more tantalizing. His heavenly song cried out, entwining with the organ's wonders, courting as one miraculous phenomenon. All five of Christine's senses soared to new heights; her tense body loosened, allowing the seductive melody to claim her…

She had seen Erik play his compositions numerous times; the way those skeleton hands danced over the keys. Only when joined with the organ's song were those inhumanely hands dangerously attractive…tempting, even. Dare Christine admit, seductive. His gloved fingers slid across the ivory keys, stroking them with fierce passion…as a man would intimately caresses his wife. Christine's eyes fell lazy, victim to the genius's musical brilliance.

Behind shut eyes, Christine imagined Erik playing her body as he often did the organ…equally passionate, equally intimate…

_His music lifts me up…both my soul and body. I transcend far beyond the tangible; into his dark kingdom. It consumes my mind; penetrates my flesh. It calls to me, beckoning me. Once again, I fall beneath the Angel of Music's blackened wing. No…I argue with myself. It's a demon's music, a requiem which moans my name… I reason. But under his power, beneath his wing, logic falters; desire surpasses all reason. Under his spell, the human race's gift of reasoning is non-existent. Yes, man becomes primitive…acting solely on his needs, his longings. He wants to survive. _

_I rise. My knees betray me, weakening, threatening to collapse…collapse at my master's heel. When his music plays, I am his plaything. I belong to him. _

_I told Raoul. I humbled myself to him, all the while, praying to my loving papa in Heaven he would understand…"__I can not tell you the effect which that music had upon me. It seemed to command me, personally, to come, to stand up and come to it. It retreated and I followed. 'Come! And believe in me!' I believed in it, I came…I came and-this was the extraordinary thing-my dressing-room, as I moved, seemed to lengthen out…to lengthen out…"_

_Yes, that voice moves me in ways I never thought possible. Physically, emotionally, sensually…before meeting that adorable voice I hadn't, yet, entered womanhood. No…but my master and all his wonders—they, together, raped my very soul. It was to him I was rid of all innocence. _

_To Erik's voice. _

_Raoul did not understand. No, he condemned the face of the voice…my poor, unhappy Erik. A man he did not know; a voice, he, himself, confessed to fall under. No. The human race would never know…_

_Erik - has he any idea what he does to me? What that voice—that glowing voice—does to his beloved?_

_He hisses my name in a delicious tease, 'Christine…Come, Christine…believe in your Angel of Music…love him…love Erik…' I believe. 'Let Erik love you…' It slides from his twisted tongue…_

_His music fills me, and I yearn to pursue its master…_

Christine's dreamy thoughts abandoned all defenses. Only within slumber did she dare admit her unfathomable fascination for Erik's music. Her mind, body, and spirit sank into a heavy sleep as she surrendered to his singing. Erik's music. During Christine's waking hours Erik was no more than a living nightmare, a murderer, and demon. But within dreams, he was her Angel of Music. Her guardian; she was his.

She was sedated, drugged…intoxicated. Spun into a euphoric state…

All the while tossing and turning:

_The icy satin of his gloves run up and down…up and down the trembling length of my body. His eyes glitter a fierce yellow, whispering his every desire, every unorthodox intention. He knows too well the power he holds; I am drawn to him like a month is to a flame. Oh, Papa! The Angel of Music - he is about to scorch away my delicate wings with those flames! For, I peel away his phantasmal gloves…the wretched barrier keeping his masterful hands from my aching flesh. He continues caressing me, more sensual than ever before…generous strokes…but, no, stop it, Erik! Cease your poisonous touch! It burns; it hurts… His flames are not loving; they are deadly!_

An ungodly scream rang out, startling Erik from his work. He cringed, both disgusted and tormented. The pitiful cries quickly became louder, more desperate. Never had his finely tuned ears met such an unsettling sound. He cupped his ears, guarding himself from those terrible cries; they only intensified.

The door flew open in a violent frenzy. Erik's piercing orbs sank deeper into his death's head; there was his beautiful Christine, crying out, tossing within the sheet's silk…so traumatized and diseased. It seemed she was demonically possessed; controlled by Hell's wrath…his right hand. She was.

"BEHOLD: a weeping angel! Oh, beautiful Christine! You cry, you tremble; you are quite frightened! What dark veil has possessed you!"

Christine calmed, subdued by Erik's soothing words. Not until she fell perfectly silent, perfectly still, were Erik's tears heard.

"Your pain, your fear…it makes Erik cry, it does! Oh, sweet, lovely, Christine! You suffer! Why so? Erik—what has he done! WHAT HAS THE FOUL WRETCH DONE TO YOU, CHRISTINE! Woe, woe, woe!—for causing you such trauma he shall pay the dearest of costs, he shall! Why, THIS deserves death alone!"

Erik pressed his masked face against her forehead. She winced as it melted to her dampened flesh. She recoiled, loathing Erik's touch. Hating the face of the voice and all it did to her.

"Oh, my unhappy Christine! Erik—he cries—he weeps for his Angel…for you!" Madly shaking the mahogany bed-frame, "YOU, YOU, YOU! ONLY YOU; ALWAYS YOU! His eyes…they bleed tears for Christine. Oh, they BURN, they do!"

Erik collapsed at his beloveds beside. His head and spirits sank to a new low, hands tightly bound together. He behaved as though he was resting at Christine's deathbed, mourning her pain and suffering.

Tapping at his mask with tightly clenched fists, "THIS CURSED flesh hasn't felt such misery until now, it hasn't, love! Oh, don't fear, don't dare fear! Christine! Spare all your sweet tears!"

Christine hadn't shed a single tear. No, she felt many things; sadness wasn't one of them.

"WHY, HAVE YOU NOT YET HEARD…?…ERIK SHALL TELL ALL: ERIK IS UNDESERVING!"

Now pounding, "NO! NO! NO! Erik shan't remove his mask—NEVER, NEVER! Christine—she has suffered enough horrors! ENOUGH! ERIK SHAN'T TORTURE YOU NO MORE! CURSE HIM, DO CURSE HIM, CHRISTINE! DO IT, DO IT! ALL CURSE ERIK!" Chuckling manically, he continued, "Oh, what wonders we have in common, sweet bride! WE LOATHE ERIK, YES, YES! We fear him…"

Christine crawled backwards, hardly breathing, distancing herself from Erik's madness; creating the illusion of safety. She was far beyond tears; no human emotion could ever explain how Christine Daaé had felt that damned night. She had woken a monster; this demon had slaughtered her beautiful Angel in the coldest of blood.

He slithered after her, his skeleton frame shuddering, rattling his every bone.

"CHRISTINE SHALL NEVER AGAIN MEET EYES WITH HER POOR DEMON! HER UNHAPPY ERIK! NEVER, NEVER, NEVER! ON THAT DAY—WOE TO ALL!"

A lethal silence consumed the shaken creatures. He observed the timid Angel, marveling how perfectly helpless she was. The rise of her breasts heaved gracefully as her rosy lips trembled. He hated himself. Longed to comfort her. His beautiful Christine…undeserving of such torment. Erik ached to reach out, offer his hand for her taking; his arms for her shelter. All he ever wanted was to be her loving_ Erik_.

Erik's rabid voice softened, cushioned by his damnable affection for Christine; never had he spoken through a gentler tone.

"Do forgive Erik. He forgets himself." A deep sigh. Cautiously outlining her jaw-line with a gloved fingertip, "You sleep now, pretty Angel…"

Needless to say, Christine didn't sleep. No—the following fortnight passed over the deranged couple as nearly sleepless, dreamless, and perfectly silent. Sleep was something she no longer sought. For two weeks, Christine lay awake as her Angel slumbered.

Erik sank into the sanctuary of his coffin.


	6. Christine's Loving Corpse

_(a/n: Hey, everyone! WOW, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, lol—I hope you guys enjoying reading it! Ah, I just LOVE your feedback. You should see my smile—it's ginormous! _

_Just in case it's a bit confusing you may want to keep in mind as you read: the chapter includes a dream sequence.)_

_CHAPTER VI: Christine's Loving Corpse_

It had been two fortnights, yet, seemed an eternity and more. Both reluctant angels kept entirely to themselves, not daring cross each others unholy and damnable paths. Neither wanted anything to do with the other—for quite opposite reasons. Christine feared and loathed Erik more than she'd ever thought possible. Her pity for the man was reluctant…but an inevitable and unstoppable force.

Erik was, without a doubt, beyond mad and cursed. But, at the end of the day, his one blessing made amends. His flawless, angelic song echoed the underworld in a long mournful cry, and Christine declared a silent truce with his darkness.

He was so frightening, the monster of her most morbid nightmares. Yet, he was the exquisite guardian of her chaste dreams all in one breath. She feared and yearned for him; he repulsed and entranced Christine. The comfort of her own company was wearing thin, lonesome and useless; she ached for human interaction and companionship. Christine winced at her twisted thoughts. He was many, many things—a companion was certainly not one of them. The young girl was confused, imprisoned, and reaching the jagged edge of madness. Her mind existed as her greatest threat and toughest nemesis. It trapped and damned her, twisted reality and candy-coated Erik's delusions. She did not know what to do…nor what to think.

Christine concluded it best to do nothing at all…and certainly not think anything. Christine just let herself…be. Like the concept of an eternity, she was condemned to stand still and simply wait. She would patiently wait within the shadows for her dawn to break; she would wait for a promise of light and a new day. Christine survived each and every painful moment, death knocking at her Louis-Philippe door all the while.

Beyond the charming bedroom dwelled her lovesick man. He could not endure it any longer. His beautiful Christine Daaé was dying at his cursed hands, her fragile beauty being squandered. Yes, his death's hands were sullied and drenched with her innocent blood, crushing her in its iron fist. Erik had stripped his angel of her wings; she had fallen. He had no living wife. His bride was undead.

The one, and only, obstacle keeping Christine from death was Erik's music. His lovely music gently flowed with life and promise. It was heaven and all its glory. Its beauty swelled around Christine. The music soared high into Apollo's Lyre, sweeping Christine into the shelter of its lacy wings, taking her along with it. His music wrapped her very soul, claiming it as his own. She surrendered.

Erik often snuck into his Angel's bedchamber once his music had successfully coaxed her into a deep sleep. His trembling soul gave an uneven, blushing pitter-patter; she was so painfully beautiful. He nearly wept from such divine perfection. Christine was his adorable, sleeping angel. Though, she had thinned tremendously, and her porcelain skin was an unhealthy shade of white.

Erik's face fell into his spidery hands. He ached to love her…he ached to love and adore her body, her mind, her soul. Erik's heart plunged into his burning lungs; how long had it been since she had last sung? He had stripped her wings. Had he stripped away her voice, as well? Such a crime deserved eternal damnation. Her voice was his face.

There, within her lonely bedchamber, Erik would sing the sweetest of lullabies, savoring the discrete smile which claimed her rosy lips. He sang his heavenly song, and Christine's sleep melted into a peaceful slumber. For a teasing moment, within the gates of Apollo's musical Lair, the two, star-crossed Angels embraced as one.

Then—she slept no more. Only darkness. It devoured her. It was everywhere. It happened so suddenly; one night, Erik's music and song ceased to exist. He'd lost all inspiration and will.

He sobbed an inward cry. The more Christine fell in love with the beauty of his voice, the more she hated the ugliness of his face.

When he dared to play, he played only the Requiem Mass. He knew: the Requiem Mass terrified Christine. The Requiem's symphony was grave and sullen—even to Erik. It was a haunting combination of ghostly moans and satanic screams; if Satan had a voice, the Requiem would be it.

Christine kept to the confines of her Louis-Philippe bedchamber almost entirely. Beautiful Christine Daaé was slowly, gradually withering away to nothingness, ashes. She was withering both mentally and physically, inward and outward. She barely ate; only enough to keep her body alive…breathing those stubborn breaths. Day by day, Christine began to assume the appearance of a mere corpse; Erik's ideal mate. Yes, Christine was withering away into an exquisite, neglected corpse. She was not becoming his bride. No. Slowly, gradually, painfully…she was becoming Erik.

Each night, Erik was sure to slip a dinner plate under her door. It was abundant in fine food and drink. He attentively studied Christine's eating habits; what was returned half eaten, wholly eaten, and untouched…

And so, each night, Erik made it an exhausting habit…preparing a hearty platter of roast beef, alongside a shallow dish of red-wine. He smiled. Each night, a beef-less plate and wine-less dish were gingerly passed under the door.

The only assurance Erik's living wife was, indeed, his _living_ wife, was the ginger return of an emptied plate. Oh, it was the most beautiful sight—that blank, thankless porcelain slate.

But Christine was no longer Erik's bride; she had become his prisoner.

* * *

Christine splayed lifelessly across the satin sheets, finding herself hungrier than usual. Such an earthly craving came to Christine as a complete surprise. Her eyes never parted from the door's panel; like a hungry mongrel, she waited in anticipation for the meal to come. Her stomach constricted, mouth madly foaming, and tongue lolling from her jaw.

Time was non-existent and an illusion. She had gone without light, without a sunrise or sunset, day and night, for…she couldn't even approximate. Long enough to go mad.

Christine had come to develop an internal clock; surely, it was dinner time! Where was her meal? Ten minutes passed; then, twenty. Her supper was, now, an hour overdue! She tossed and turned, her stomach growling that she swallow her pride. Christine's frail body began to tremor with resentment. No! Her mind didn't want to survive; her persistent body thought otherwise.

Her mind and vision clouded as she felt herself spinning and spinning, round and round. 'No', she pleaded to herself…this wasn't Christine's first hallucination. Christine knew well: it wouldn't be her last.

She had become sentenced to a haunting prison of illusions and manipulations. Mirrors, mirrors, and more mirrors. Mirrors could easily kill. The delicate line separating Heaven from Hell, reality from fiction, had been blurred. Everything was obscured and twisted, seemingly to Erik's liking.

The saddest thing was Christine's stubbornness and inability for an open mind; for change and acceptance. She swore to her loving papa in Heaven, to Raoul, her sweet light: Erik reigned in Hell, and wanted nothing more than to condemn her to his own ill fate. Condemn her to himself. Suck her into his fiery, merciless pit, manically laughing, all the while.

Christine was blind, bitter and stubborn; this was her death-wish.

Erik wanted one thing and one alone: to be redeemed. It was only she who could do such an impossible thing. If only Christine could open her heart, her mind…the nightmare would be over.

* * *

Christine clung dearly to the flailing scorpion. Helplessly, she held onto the insect's spine as it thrashed and hissed about. She embraced its skeletal frame tighter, and the scorpion hissed louder. Only this deranged scorpion's cooperation and acceptance could save Christine from its wrath. It was hopeless! Pure despair! For, the scorpion wanted no part of Christine; it turned round and round and round…she felt queasy and dizzy, losing her grip…slipping…slipping…away…

He hissed through bloodthirsty, menacing and venomous fangs. _'Christine…I am no poison to you…you are, more so, to myself…feel my will; taste my wrath…hissss…' _

The scorpion's yellow eyes glimmered with lethal hatred. Christine knew too well; she had done something, something terrible to this poor creature. Something unforgivable and vile. He had no intention to grant her his mercy; no, he wished Christine to pay dearly for bestowing such torture. Madness overshadowed all reason; despair sullied all hope.

Losing patience, the Scorpion's tail lifted sky-high, aching to poison its burden…release them both from their shared misery. Christine tossed and turned within the sheet's blackened silk, dodging the scorpion's stinging wrath. That stinging tail came crashing down on her with unstoppable force. It was all so real…so real…so far from illusion…

A sharp pain shot through Christine's flailing body. She curled into a fetus-like position, welcoming the scorpion's poison, embracing all it offered. Pain soon melted into bitter sweet relief. Then, she felt herself falling, falling, further into despair's hopeless depths. Christine and the world around her stilled; everything fell perfectly dark, perfectly soundless. The blaring darkness seemed to burn her eyes. Its deadly rays were powerful and unforgiving. Inescapable…

* * *

Complete darkness. A sweet and familiar voice lurked somewhere in the surrounding gloom, distant and faded:

"Christine! Christine!"

Raoul's kind voice called to her within the haunted night. Christine fought her invisible bounds; she tried to stand, but couldn't. She knew not what, but _something_ was holding her back. And, her restraints weren't tangible, of the living; they couldn't be broken, couldn't be severed. Like a sacrifice, she was tied down, waiting…for him.

Raoul's promising voice became louder, drawing closer. She fought to stand and overcome darkness's iron grip.

"Christine! Why must you hide from me?" Raoul's voice cracked boyishly as he spoke through his raining tears. "Christine—you have abandoned me! For him!"

She returned her mate's call, equally disheartened. "Never, never! Never would I, Raoul!"

"You have gone back," Raoul stated, free of all emotion. "And, so I must doubt your love for me!"

"Never will there be a day I shan't have love for you! My soul; it is yours, Raoul! Only yours, always yours! Oh, forever yours! Let us fly; embrace me at once!"

Christine's arms extended, reaching out—only to embrace the bottomless night. She moaned in frustration, praying for light in this despairing dark.

"Oh, Raoul! Lead me to your light; lead me from him! Oh, he is so very cruel! I hate him! I hate him so!"

The familiar voice floated closer and closer; soon, intimately close. A faint, ghostly touch ran over her golden sea of curls. The long fingers tangled within their softness. Christine's spine stiffened at the haunting, unseen touch.

Once again, the familiar voice cried out as the unfamiliar touch swept over her shivering form in a phantasmal tease. The touch hovered over Christine, the chilly air devouring them both.

"Non; you shan't fly with me any longer, Christine. For, I have, once, given you the chance—to fly up, up into the bounties of Apollo's Lair, and then further yet! Deny me once…you shall very well soon deny me again! Again and again! You must think me to be unworthy of you, Christine!"

Pleading, "Non, non! I have given myself to you, heart and soul! You mustn't leave me, Raoul! Never shall we again part!"

The faceless voice lifted Christine from the satin sanctuary, holding her tenderly and closely. She sobbed as the long arms cradled her closer, returning her heartache tenfold.

The voice cooed in her ears, murmuring all the kindness the world could ever hope to offer. "Beautiful Christine…you weep, you are frightened! Why so? Your tears! They break me, they do. They suffocate my spiritless breaths! But you shan't be faded any longer! For, at last, we embrace as one, heart to heart, cheek to cheek…no harm shall come of you now."

She spun herself around, aligning her tear-stained face with his. "It is a tragic thing, Christine love…dying alone."

Two glowing stars danced across her eyes, the only relief to the darkness. The touch trembled within her arms, its hot breath burning her alive. Like true lovers, their heartbeats joined together, beating in perfect unity. The man's gentle touch was indescribable; never had Christine been held so intimately, yet, so very chaste, at the same time.

Christine's beloved pulled her closer, whispering ever so softly, "Christine, Christine, Christine…"

The voice was so soothing and so comforting; it was pure music to her ears. She could die happily, coaxed within the gentle arms of Raoul's voice. For the first time in years, Christine felt safe and truly loved. Within her darkest hour, he had come.

Christine cried into his chest, pulling at the dress-shirt's sweat lined material with desperation and need. She twisted and wrung the fabric in her grip. The touches' breath fell more and more labored with each of her loving tugs. Christine could feel both its hesitation and persistence. It drew back from her clutch with a shudder; why was Raoul refusing her? Finally, they had come together and reunited. No, she could not see his beautiful face…Raoul's face, a face carved by God's angels; but she could feel him as though he was of flesh and blood! No, she would not let go; never, ever again!

The immediate shock of embracing Raoul soon cooled; her tears renewed. A sharp gasp erupted from her lungs. The inevitable truth had dawned on Christine:

"Oh, no, no! YOU ARE DEAD, Raoul! Why, you are a corpse, at best!"

And, he was. Quite simply, a charred plethora of fleshless bones. So soulless, so very lifeless. His ghostly lungs were airless, those neglected lips charred beyond all help. Christine shook the rattling bones in a pathetic attempt to bring him to life. Her tears bathed and washed him. To her dismay, her tears were far from holy water. No, instead, they seemed to sizzle against her poor, unhappy Raoul.

"Yes, Christine…it is a heartless corpse which loves you in his death and beyond…a dead man whom weeps burning tears for you. Tears that burn, Christine! Oh, they burn something terrible, my love!"

"Oh, woe, woe unto him! HE has killed you, my love! IT has taken you from me. Far from our beautiful love! That terrible, wretched thing has taken you into HIS Hell, hasn't he?"

He knew it wasn't a question.

"Corpse or no corpse, I love you just the same! This I promise. Love me! Oh, you MUST love me! I'm yours, mind, body, and soul!" Christine passionately declared.

The voice pulled at the hem of her skirts. He fell forward in a bowing position, weeping tears of unfathomable happiness. It whimpered a gracious, wordless thank you.

"Oh, my so loving corpse," Christine assured. "Make me your own; not even Death, himself, shall stand in our love's eternal way! Forever, I shall REST with you, for you!"

The bones rattled and shuddered, struggling to breathe. To live, for her.

"CHRISTINE! In HIS merciless Hell—I burn! Erik…has, he has! For, I burn, Christine! Erik has condemned me, he has! I burn in Hell—I forever am denied an Angel! Oh, kiss me, Christine! Breathe your life into these soulless lungs; won't you? Snuff these flames; ignite OUR fire! Save me, save me! Redeem our scorned love?"

"I shall, I shall! I give you my lips, my soul, my life! Take them; fly me from here at once!"

His death's head pushed against her soft flesh, and their tears of unrequited love mingled; joined forces. Christine offered her lips, aching, dying inside. She prayed for release. She prayed for Raoul's kiss, his love, his touch.

She waited, and his lips did not come. The hot, wailing breath pulled away until she felt its warm caress no more. A thin, deathly cold hand grazed her dampened cheek, replacing its missed breath. Death's teeth chattered rhythmically, hesitantly, madly. Why was Raoul so frightened? Is this not what he had wished for? Pleaded for?

"Oh, Christine! It is I; I have come for my bride, at last, I have! First, you must declare your eternal love for ME, Christine! LOVE ME FOR ME, and I shall forever give you myself!"

"I do! Take me! Together, betrothed, we shall live, embrace! Take me, Raoul, at once!"

A skeletal finger brushed across her lips, savoring all they offered. His touch was suddenly weak, laced with doubt and shame. Christine's loving corpse wilted at her poisonous touch.

She madly winced, pushing the desperate corpse far from herself. Like a hermit, she crawled backwards, away, far away…stunned, humiliated, terrified, appalled, queasy, betrayed, vengeful, depressed, sickened…no palpable emotion could ever describe quite how Christine felt that fateful night.

Christine soon reached the bed's edge; she tumbled backwards, descending deeper into Hell's mindless pit.

She slammed against the pit's rock bottom, sobbing into her red handkerchief. She inhaled the sea-air that would forever embed its fabric. Christine returned herself to better times.

Christine dragged herself across the bedchamber's floor, unable to stand. The carpet rubbed against her, abusing and burning her lovely porcelain skin. She soon reached her barrier; Christine tightly balled her fists, madly banging and clawing at the Louis-Philippe door. Her golden curls swept the floor, spiraling down and over her slender shoulders.

An Angel wept close behind her; the heartbreaking tears chimed in a hopeless, beautiful melody: a requiem mass! The heartbroken man cried into those cursed, skeletal hands. Those hands which made him unworthy and nonhuman…unlovable and unredeemable.

"WHY! WHY, WHY, WHY?" Her fallen Angel pleaded to nobody and anybody all at once.

For the first time, Christine and Erik realized just how_ alone they truly were_. Oh—what had they done?

The hand, the faceless voice, the gentle and loving touch—it had smelt of death!

_a/n: Chapter 6 spoiler: Erik was able to impersonate Raoul's voice because of his talent in ventriloquism. Her nightmare ended after being poisoned by the 'scorpion.' The Raoul in her room was really a desperate and deceitful Erik, all along Oh! And those 'two glowing stars' were Erik's eyes! OoOh! Making sure that's all clear.)_


	7. Erik's Undead Wife

_(a/n: Please check out the a/n at bottom after reading!)_

_CHAPTER VII: Erik's Undead Wife_

Christine clawed at her Louis-Philippe door, choking on her thick sobs. Her throat constricted and burned, as her cries grew louder, more despairing; the mourning Angel's requiem intensified, sharing in her heartache. Their two, exquisite songs entwined together, singing out all the world's sorrow in a heartfelt symphony.

Only months ago, Christine's voice was empty and unheard. Her beloved father had promised her a guardian, an angel of music…and he had come. The Angel of Music filled her song with beauty and soul. It was a miracle and curse, all at once…Christine imagined.

The adorable voice was nothing short of angelic; yet, its words were those of a man—not an angel of Heaven. The voice, the angel, her friend, spoke to Christine…answered her questions and guided her, in more ways than one.

Not so long ago, Christine had tried to put this eerie phenomenon into words. Raoul asked, and she told:

_"The voice seemed to understand mine exactly, to know precisely where my father had left off teaching me. In a few weeks' time, I hardly knew myself when I sang. I was even frightened…"  
_

Christine might have been astray and hopeless—contrary to rational belief, she was not completely mad.

At least, not yet.

Mamma Valerius, her 'adoptive' mother, assisted in Christine's trust in the disembodied voice.

Spilling her soul, letting it bleed, Christine had continued her confession to dear Raoul:

_"She said that she knew I was much too simple a girl to give the devil a hold on me…My progress, by the voice's own order, was kept a secret between the voice, Mamma Valerius and myself…"_

Erik, the voice, was a jealous one. He inspired and intrigued his Christine with a most promising statement_, "We shall astonish all of Paris! You shall see!" _

And they certainly did.

_

* * *

_

She continued to scratch and pound relentlessly, as if she was a caged animal…battling those bars robbing her of freedom. Christine's neck bent back in an elegant arch, whilst a sea of gold washed over her ghostly complexion. Erik sadly observed his sweet, tortured angel, never having felt more monstrous. Christine was suffering, withering away; writhing both physically and emotionally. Christine Daaé was dying at his dirtied, stained hands, and in the coldest of blood. Yes—Erik was slowly murdering the one person he had ever loved. Eternal damnation, he fantasized.

Erik cradled Christine's chin and lifted her face. Icy tears blanketed her paled cheeks in a waterfall. She dropped her chin and jerked from the unfeeling touch, crying out to the neglectful heavens.

"Why, Lord, why! Why the need to condemn me to such ill fate! Sentence me to Hell! Sentence my soul to the wrath of a demon! You have forgotten me! Why, why, why!"

The weeping Angel's tears quickly dried; his wings were severed and torn away. Burnt to smoldering ashes. Christine's words awoke Erik's inner demons; he felt as though all of the world's hatred were spoken through her cruel plea. In that moment, he mutated into something far from holy; something terrible and demonic. The Angel of Music had faded away, dissolving into darkness…bitter silence. Christine Daaé knew nothing of _true _demons. Monsters…accursed beings.

She knew nothing of her poor, unhappy Erik!

That familiar coldness pressed into Christine's demure frame; Erik trapped her lively hands midair. Her frantic pounding came to an end.

"You ask why, dearest Christine! You weep; you curse your adoring Erik!" Hissing sardonically, he continued, "Your _so loving corpse_! Yes, yes, yes! A soulless corpse, Christine! A corpse which loves you in his death! I assume the 'life' of a dead man, my love! In death, Erik has been denied his rest! There exists NO MERCY! THERE EXISTS NO LORD! NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING! Believe your loving Erik, you shall! Your fallen Angel! Your dead husband!"

Then, Erik sneered, envying 'Raoul's' corpse.

Erik squeezed her wrists harder than intended, losing any and all self-control. He moaned, "Erik is not of flesh and blood! No, no, no! And yet, he bleeds for YOU, he does! Only for Christine, always for Christine! YOU, love, YOU!"

Christine shuddered, battling her newest restraint, newest bondage. Erik's spidery fingers coiled, enveloping her wrists completely. A pitiful shriek erupted from her throat. Erik knew hers was not a cry of pain. No, it was a cry of pure agony and despair. He knew that cry all too well. Erik pulled down on her flinching hands, firmly securing them behind the slim arch of her back. Those hands…they were like chains, unbreakable and cold as death. She inhaled a poisonous breath, surrendering to her demon's iron wrath. Erik…he assumed the form of a dead man, holding the strength of a vengeful god.

She freed an exceptionally gruesome shriek. Christine felt Erik convulse against her, in response to such a vulgar sound. He flinched away in an attempt to relieve his assaulted ears.

"Foolish child! Listen to yourself! TERRIBLE SIREN! You warp those angelic lungs, you do! Quiet, now! Be silent, wailing siren! Erik shan't let you destroy such a gift! No, no! Yes! Erik's voice - it's his voice which spills from your lungs! You must cherish it!"

Christine shook her head with vigor, screaming silent objection. Erik trapped her chin in a suave motion, twisting it up to his damning glare.

"Music—yes, it burns, it does! OH! DOESN'T IT, LOVE? NO! YOU MUSTN'T FIGHT IT! NO, NO! Let it Burn!…For everything burns, little songbird! Why, even God's most humbled angels burn…from time to time, they do!…"

"Oh, how I hate you so! Maybe there exists no Lord nor mercy…there exits Hell! Satan! Demons and sin! In flesh and blood, there does! You, ERIK—you walk as your dead bride's proof!"

Erik kenlt to Christine's level, steadying her arms with one hand. The opposite brushed over her stiffened neck in a painful tickle. His stinging eyes fell shut, as he worshipped Christine. His heartless, beautiful Christine. He gingerly massaged her inflamed throat, 'tsking', caressing her with a healing touch.

Christine gave a last cry, hating herself. His touch…Erik's unseen and deft touch was soothing. It was gentle yet dangerously enticing, all at once. Far from human. Such a heavenly caress could only return Christine's powerless senses to her Angel's song. So very gentle and fleeting, much like the charming flutter of an Angel's wings. That voice…she could _feel_ his _voice_.

Raoul entered Christine's mind; she felt as though she betrayed him. Why was her soul so disconnected from the rest of her being? Her mind so deluded?

She felt those fingers, that smelt of death, ensnaring her neck completely. The tainted embrace mimicked a collar, Erik being her master. In a most morbid and twisted way, she liked it. Erik felt her swallow beneath his lifeless fingers. Christine's so vulnerable neck…it was such a tangible thing to Erik. His hands ran up and down its brittle shaft, behaving on their own accord. Acting on behalf of some haunting, distant instinct. Christine further tensed, sucking in her trembling breath. His inhuman fingers found Christine's beating pressure point. It settled there, and Erik massaged its thundering pulse. It pushed and pushed in objection, fighting a losing battle. Erik would have pulled away, had he felt it slow; die at his touch. Miraculously, it seemed only to quicken.

As much as Erik desired, before then, he had only seen his dead wife. Her eye's depths were shallow and soulless. Somehow, someway, his touch had resurrected Christine…for a tender moment.

He tremulously examined her blood flow with a curious touch. The way it swam under each finger, how its pace vastly quickened at his attention. Life, he thought…inwardly confirmed. Yes—she was of the living.

His thoughts trailed back to ones of death.

Erik thought of Persia. His loving Punjab lasso. Punjab lasso…it had ended countless lives, saving many. Yes, within the rosy hours of Mazenderan, the iron tree is a beautiful thing. A savior, portal to that better place. For, the Punjab lasso is an escape from cruel illusion. A sweet release from mirrored chambers and hopeless labyrinths. Oh, what power it possessed! Persia's trap-door lover's magical lasso; it truly was nothing short of magical. And, here _she_ was. Erik thoughtfully pondered his two loves: Punjab Lasso and Christine Daaé.

Christine, his love, his distressed damsel, was crying for her much needed, much anticipated, bittersweet release; Erik could give it to her.

He inwardly shuddered. No. Not like this. Yet, Erik couldn't help but wonder: if Christine was freed from her mortal mesh…would she love him? See beyond the ugliness of his face, into the beauty of his heart? In her death, could Christine make that sacrifice—give Erik life?

Erik would happily put to rest the human race. All of 'it.' Christine Daaé wasn't a part of the human race. No. She was an angel! The human race…so very malicious and heartless. Erik leaned forward, chapped lips drawing dangerously near to her pounding neck, breathing and sucking in her spirit. She flinched and tugged, outwardly denying him life. Denying Erik that same, wondrous thing which humanity had always forsaken him; the wonder, he had truly hoped, Christine would, for once, allow him. Life. The simple, humble pleasures of the living. Yet, here she was…rejecting him, carrying out his sentence. How could something so beautifully pure, commit such an unloving crime? His lips curled in a grin; his Angel was fallen, Erik decided.

His masterful, skeletal hands crawled down the elegant length of her neck, inch by inch. Like a young boy, he tentatively explored the foreign and unknown. Christine whimpered, finally releasing her withheld breath.

But his brave quest only continued.

He swept away blonde ringlets, capturing them between his web of fingers. Erik shut his eyes as they fanned through his slightly parted touch, relishing such softness. A tender slice of Heaven. Somewhere, lodged in the back of his possessed mind, Erik was well aware such touch was forbidden. His touch. But, as he inhaled Christine's intoxicating femininity, he succumbed to the man within.

Erik cursed aloud as he committed, what he truly believed, was his most treacherous sin yet.

He ached for a kiss.

"Mourez, en non aimant Dieu!" (Die, unloving God!)

Enraged and maddened by such a thought, sickened with himself, and seeking bittersweet revenge…

He dared to pull Christine further into himself. He embraced the Angel of Music's prodigy, hissing deviously through clenched teeth.

"Foolish child! Your love would've redeemed me, your Erik!" His lips abandoned her flesh, descending back down her neck's endless length. He ghosted gracefully across Christine's tingling skin; cold breath and words paralyzed her spine. "…redeemed us…"

She pinched her eyes closed, speaking in a barely there whisper. "There is no us."

Erik growled onto her neck's nape; her back vibrated against his shuddering form in a violent chain, tickling his hollow chest. Tenderly, he found her wrists, rubbing their sore flesh, wishing for death. He hummed a darkly soothing and dangerous lullaby, fingers never daring part from Christine. She groaned a husky breath, hands suddenly limp and lifeless. Erik didn't hesitate to pause his handiwork, genuinely concerned.

"_Christine…Christine…Christine…_"

Erik passionately recited her name, as though it was a sacred prayer.

She wouldn't cry. She couldn't cry. Christine bit away tears until she tasted the metallic flavor of blood.

In the simplest plea, "Free me."

"NO! NO! NO!" Returning her desperation, "Free Erik!"

A loud, blunt silence followed. The reluctant duo imprisoned each other, both hostages of angst, unrequited love, and despair. Both stubborn, showing no mercy…blinded in every way.

Erik harshly released his scorned lover. He rose to his full, magnificent height—not an inch less. Christine spun round reluctantly, slamming her back up against the door. Golden curls fell across her fearful stare. The darkness constricted and swelled around her; it was powerful, condemning, and inescapable. It was suffocating.

It was her tomb.

Yellow, morbid orbs contrasted against the surrounding gloom; it was a dim illumination. Truly, a poor light source, to say the least. The haunting pair severed the darkness. She gazed upon the penetrating spheres of yellow, and it dawned on Christine: not all light is good.

Erik leaned forward, his deathly aura bridged above her; she cowered in his unseen shadow…

He plunged his fists against the door in a vicious requiem…over and over…

"YOUR HATE, YOUR UNENDING HATRED—IT SHALL CONDEMN YOU FOREVERMORE! WOE UNTO YOU! WOE, WOE, WOE!"

* * *

Into the late hours of night, and wee hours of morning, Christine was surprised to stumble upon a rather peculiar note.

The printing was a bloody, morbid red, messy and juvenile. But the words were short and sweet. Ingenious, far from infantile.

A pair of tarnished skeleton keys were inseparably bound to the parchment. One key was engraved with Death's head, the other not.

Christine's eyes squeezed together, struggling to decipher her O.G.'s message.

_'Two keys, two fates for Erik. _

_The deciduous or African forest: which?'_

_

* * *

_

_(a/n: Hope you liked! Erik's note offers Christine a critical choice, much like the grasshopper and scorpion. The key to the 'deciduous' forest would open up a door leading to 'Erik's delusional picnic grounds.' The African forest key belongs to his mirrored torture chamber's door. Christine is in control of Erik's fate: she can send them both out to their Sunday picnic. In contrast, she can lock him away in his own torture chamber (where he would inevitably go crazy, and hang himself on the 'iron tree,' as did all his victims), as well…_

_Wasn't sure if that was clear or not. :)_

_Thank you so much for your support, guys! __Please don't forget to drop a review!)_


	8. The Deciduous or African Forest: which?

_(a/n: Hope you enjoy! Thank you ALL for the support! Please drop a review if you've read. Check out a/n at bottom after chapter. xoxo.)_

_Previously…_

_Into the late hours of night, and wee hours of morning, Christine was surprised to stumble upon a rather peculiar note._

_The printing was a bloody, morbid red, messy and juvenile. But the words were short and sweet. Ingenious, far from infantile._

_A pair of tarnished skeleton keys were inseparably bound to the parchment. One key was engraved with Death's head, the other not._

_Christine's eyes squeezed together, struggling to decipher her O.G.'s message._

_'Two keys, two fates for Erik._

_The deciduous or African forest: which?'_

_

* * *

_

_CHAPTER VIII: The Deciduous or African Forest: which?_

Christine's sapphire eyes danced feverishly across the childish lettering more times than she dared count. Those bleeding words were accompanied by an entirely morbid decision: further indulge Erik in his demented realm of endless illusions; sentence Erik to his own insanity. Christine felt many things regarding unhappy Erik; love or remorse was not one of them. The deciduous and African forests were not all too different, Christine could not help but contemplate. In their own, unnerving ways, both were cruel and deceitful. Both reflected Erik's inner despair through a cyclone of one-way glass. Both offered escape, feeding into the diluted minds of its tortured captives. Both were tragically beautiful.

Christine sighed heavily to herself as she reminisced the deciduous forest with reluctance. Yes, so beautiful, so exquisitely flawless. Christine hadn't had the pleasure of visiting a deciduous forest before the newlywed's Sunday outing. Erik's recreation truly was, Christine could only fantasize, all a deciduous paradise might have appeared like.

The trees were tall and proud, their wood engraved with natural imperfections, bark seemingly carved by God's careful hand. Though, their branches of leafs were still and lifeless; the wind's breath was non-existent. Beautiful, but no soul. A babbling brook's soothing melody had caressed Christine's vengeful nerves…truly, an ideal backdrop to any Sunday afternoon.

Then the illusion had shattered.

Dementedly stuffed creatures of all species infested the cluttered trees, humble mounds of forest floor, and rocky sanctuaries; all sacrificed for her! Poor, unhappy creatures! Why must Erik spill the blood of the innocent so blindly, so artistically—and in her very name? Christine grimaced; what an ungodly paradox his Hell was!

Erik asked only for normalcy, life and redemption. Fallen upon the crutch of his knees, his golden eyes had softened, whilst Erik chanced a timid look up at his Christine. He clung to her skirts with despair and desperation, as if she would vanish from his kingdom at any given moment, knowing too well she loathed the face of the Voice. Erik's head had bowed down in shame and silent apology, as he pleaded for a living wife to call his own.

Though, this dared not to occur until Erik's music—his _Don Juan Triumphant_—had burned Christine Daaé. Erik had been unmasked, caught within his most vulnerable form, and left completely naked for Christine's inquisitive eyes to feed.

_"Look! You want to see! See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik's face! Now you know the face of the voice!"_

Fiercely tossed within her Louis-Philippe room, Erik pounded his burning music in a state of angered frenzy. His _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was her punishment. She would succumb to his music, to her Erik. At first, it seemed no more than a long, magnificent sob to Christine. It was a thunderous tangle of cries and strangled sobs. But, Don Juan had slowly gained humanity, singing all man's suffering through those passionate, flowing notes. She withered against the slammed shut door, devoured whole by Erik's genius. A submissive whimper slid from Christine's throat, and she wrung her hands behind her back in morbid desperation and restraint. She felt his soul, his voice, his hands.

Christine's hazy eyes slipped shut, finding a foreign ecstasy in this _Don Juan…_mind slowing being claimed…body behaving on its own accord. He really was much like Don Juan; Christine was intoxicated and morbidly seduced. Like a moth to a blazing flame, she was drawn to this creature, this Erik—only to be burned.

As beautiful and heavenly the Voice's music was, its face was equally vile. Like Pandora (the inquisitive and naive mortal), _Christine_ had opened the box of evil, freeing all demons and ugliness into the gentle world. Yes, in the back of Erik's consumed mind, he knew well: Christine was, indeed, his living wife. So naive, so curious! Tempted all too easily.

_"You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask."_

And, Christine had done just that! Almost as though she was wilfully submitting herself to a lifetime of Erik, she had pulled away the forbidden mask. In one, quick motion of the hand, Christine had become his living bride.

Though, Pandora had shut the box quickly enough to leave hope inside. Had Christine Daaé done the same?

Those words, spoken straight from the depths of Erik's aching heart, would forever plague Christine's nightmares:

"_I can't go on living like this, like a mole in a burrow! Don Juan Triumphant is finished; and now I want to live like everybody else. I want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays. You will be the happiest of women. And we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight. Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself."_

A heart he offered, a heart she refused. She would never rest.

Yet, Erik surrounded their charming house on the lake with death, death, and more death. Yes, Erik offered his bride damnation and death, alone! Blood and more corpses! Oh, _all _those poor, soulless creatures! Stuffed to their very fullest; their lovely, gemmed eyes glinting with a sad resentment…knowing they were thrown at the mercy of an accursed being. Knowing Erik, their _master_, was to rob them of what he'd always been forsaken.

Life.

Christine's fine brows knitted in both frustration and anger. Thoughts spiraled back to ones of the living. To her long lost sweetheart—as they too often did. Oh, Raoul, the most beautiful gentleman she had ever had the pleasure of knowing! Both inwardly and outwardly; what a flawless soul he had held. A dashing face, only befitting to his unblemished heart. And, Christine's monster had drained him of all life, diminishing him to his own, uncalled fate! Death! Erik's iron wrath!

Christine's eyes and thoughts abandoned the words, and settled on her choices.

The key to the African forest was so ingenious! It would unlock Erik's rightful sentence. Oh—the terrible key and Erik—twins, they were! Both boasting the sick glory of Death's head. Both cold and unfeeling. Both tarnished and ruined beyond repair, Christine knew.

Then…there laid its opposite. Christine's ultimatum. It was polished and lovely. Cared for with such fine precision, offering a false world…and yet, it resembled all the appeal of a beautiful and promising paradise. The choice was pitiful.

It had already been made.

* * *

Once again, Christine collapsed into the possessive throes of despair's darkness. That familiar blackness swelled around her, constricting around her neck's brittle shaft, claiming Christine as its own…a final time. Darkness' unseen grip tightened, like a Punjab lasso, suffocating poor Christine beyond help. She whimpered from the terror she had come to know so well. Christine stroked her vulnerable flesh in a tickling motion, wishing for mercy and freedom.

Then…

A lover's mourning cry echoed all around Christine. It was a cry of loss and loneliness. Disappointment and resentment. Those tender sobs of heartache transformed into a damning cyclone, growing louder, louder…louder. The violin's musical cries swirled all around her, swallowing Christine within an inescapable prison. The wailing was now deafening; Christine cupped her little ears in futile defense.

A voice, a most soothing voice, overtook the pitiful sobs, leaving only silence in her wake.

"_Christine…" _

The sweet voice behaved as hands; Christine obediently peeled away each of her own. She allowed the voice into her thoughts.

"_My poor Christine…what has come of you, my dear?" _

"_Papa! Oh, Papa!"_

A miracle! Changed by time, yet familiar and comforting. It was the voice of her beloved papa!

"_Papa! Why such darkness? Where is the light you have been promised; the light which had, once, been taken?" _Christine shuddered, wondering if she had died.

Her papa sighed wholeheartedly.

"_You have forgotten me, my child."_

"_Never! How could you think such thoughts? Never, Papa, never!"_

"_No longer do you sing." _

"_A fallen angel! A fallen angel is what you have sent me! He who once gifted me with a voice so exquisite—one I could not even recognize as my own!—Inspires only horror within me, now! I have been rid a soul to sing with! Oh, he frightens me, so! Why, Papa, why?"_

Papa sighed deeply, his sadness painfully evident. The sobbing resumed, now enchanting and reassuring.

_"Oh, Papa! I miss you so! Do not leave me in this black abyss; not again, not now…"_

Papa's charming violin continued its coaxing, cradling Christine within its distant and faded melody. A beautiful, Swedish song, Christine had too long been denied, serenaded her into that rare slumber. Unperceived by Christine, Erik lurked feet from her bed like a stalking shadow. She looked so peaceful; he smiled against his mask in triumph.

* * *

Christine woke with a start, forehead lined with a film of beading sweat, fragile body violently trembling. Though, she trembled not from the labyrinth's cold.

"PAPA! PAPA!" Silence was the given response. Never had she felt more alone, more abandoned and orphaned.

No more; Christine was breaking, her spirit being crushed to mere ashes. She could handle no more.

Christine kicked away the dampened, musty comforter in a tantrum. Long ballerina's legs plummeted to the floor, considerably thinned, but still strong in elegance, and Christine secured her robe's sagging wool around her demure frame. Christine fingered the soft material, relishing the comfort it offered. It was lovely, constructed perfectly to every elegant contour of Christine.

Her paled cheeks blushed stubbornly at such a thing, polished a devilish red, and Christine kicked her self mentally, painfully …wishing to punish her indecent and terrible thoughts. The feather light robe grazed against her in an elegant and intimate caress; a lover's caress. Never could she have afforded such a luxury; it made her feel like royalty.

She stalked over to her mahogany vanity, freeing the robe from herself. She collected it from the ground, folding it neatly, resting it over her bed's post. Christine shivered; she was awfully cold, yet couldn't bring herself to wear that robe. Her fingers lingered atop the welcoming material longer than necessary. Erik had knitted this robe.

A candle had been set aglow in her Louis-Philippe bed chamber's darkest corner. Its faint and wavering illumination bled across those fateful words, flame murmuring a foreboding hum:

_The deciduous or African forest: which?_

_

* * *

_

Death's head felt cool against her palm's flesh. Not uncomfortably cool; instead, its touch was almost refreshing. Christine's tiny fingertips ran up and down the sullied metal in thought…up and down.

The door groaned painfully as Christine carefully shut it. No more. No more nightmares; no more tears. Her chin lifted with pride, mind suddenly consumed by the last of Raoul's prayers. Renewed hatred glazed over her oceanic gaze.

The tranquil pitter-patter of feet sprinkled through the eerie house in melody. The house Christine had come to know as home. She quickened her pace to a sprint, vengeance empowering her steps.

Christine clutched the icy metal to her breasts, shivering as she did so. She peered down, bravely returning the terrible face's metal glare; it seemed to wink menacingly beneath the scone lamps' spilled glow. It burned through Christine, almost as though it was on fire. The familiar musical tune whispered all around her. She felt it tickling the nude sole's of her feet…the music breezed through her locks of gold…caressed her ghostly complexion in delicate touches…tortured her thoughts, her sanity.

Barely, Christine recalled the Swedish folk song's tragic lyrics.

_'Sir Mannelig, Sir Mannelig, will you not marry me for all that I shall gladly give you? You may answer only yes or no. Will you do so or no?'_

A song about Sir Maanelig, and the love he would forever be denied—a loathsome troll, who longed to be human—for her. A beast who beckoned and tempted his love with things of beauty, wishing to make her his own for an eternity and more…

___'To you I will give a brand new shirt. The lustrous best for to wear. It is not sewn with needle or thread, but crocheted of the whitest silk.' _

…but, only to be denied by his scorning beloved:

___'Gifts such as these I would gladly receive If you were a Christian man. But I know you are the worst mountain troll, from the spawn of Necken and the devil.' _

(Translation: Necken, German - meaning 'to delight in teasing/taunting')

Christine madly shook her downcast face, willing away the haunting melody; it gingerly dissolved into the glum surroundings, as commanded.

"Enough! Enough!" She managed to choke out, before taking the final steps to her long missed freedom.

She felt a surge of strength pour through her churning veins; like a saint, Christine would rescue humanity. Put a rightful end to _his_ madness. Erik's madness.

She continued her brave quest, not swallowing back a bitter half smile.

* * *

Erik's room. Christine stood in the elegant archway, hands folded neatly beneath the generous weight of her chest. Sapphire eyes crawled across the room searchingly. Blackness—it was everywhere! Damning! The elaborate, scarlet canopy bled menacingly through his domain's endless night, donning over Erik's humbled coffin, similar to how a crooked halo might have.

Words 'DIES IRAE' flashed across her eyes in a vicious raid. DIES IRAE, DIES IRAE, DIES IRAE, DIES IRAE!

—it was a Latin hymn, praising the 'day of judgment' and all the glory it promised to bring.

Being the faithful Christian she was, Christine could recall the melody, as her mind hummed the _Requiem Mass'_ profound words:

'Worthless are my prayers and sighing,  
yet, good Lord, in grace complying,  
rescue me from fires undying!'

Such peculiar words; so unlike Erik! Why would pleas and sighs of redemption, 'DIES IRAE'…words of hope, a chance of being 'saved', grace this demon's coffin?

'Low I kneel, with heart submission,  
see, like ashes, my contrition;  
help me in my last condition…'

The Requiem Mass! It was one of Erik's many poisons.

Christine shrugged away the Requiem Mass and any thoughts for mercy on Erik's damned existence. She continued pondering the nearly lightless and pitch-black funeral quarters in vain. _Erik_—she thought in a twisted panic—_where has he dared gone?_

_This is no choice! Like the grasshopper and scorpion, there is no choice! For, Erik has clearly chosen, as he has already chosen my dark and shared fate…_

…_Or, has he simply fled Hell and all its demons? _

"Wretched coward!" Christine shrieked beneath her breath in a terrible realization.

But a soft sigh quieted her. A tall, funeral-style candelabra stood in his room's haunted corner, offering the one glimpse of light. Christine stepped forward, towards the calling light, careful not to be heard. Her eyes narrowed intently on the raven figure crouching at the flame's heel.

Yes—it was Erik's skeletal back that was arched, rattling with his slow and graceful intakes of breath. Her eyes gradually grew more accustomed to the dark atmosphere, as they often did; Christine couldn't help but admire Erik's lovely ensemble. He was always dressed in Paris' very finest—but _this_…it was beyond words. Perfectly tailored to every unnatural bend of Erik's frightful frame, a long satin tail pooling gracefully behind. The fire danced across the silks and satins in a spectacle, sparkling attractively before Christine's eyes.

How could she compliment this treacherous monster, this murdering beast, in any way? _For the love of Raoul, let this be done! _

"Eri—" She began, only to be silenced.

He spoke, and Christine could only listen. She held no patience, no time for this madness any longer. For, even now, he dared to torture Christine.

_How could I have been so very careless upon entering his quarters? He has heard my presence—of course!—and now, I must suffer his wrath a last time. _

And torture it was! The voice—the adorable voice she had once loved and worshipped with everything in her—was torturously sweet and gentle, as it began to speak. Christine shook her head in silent objection to the voice's power, inching dangerously near to her fallen Erik. Intimately near. No bodily heat radiated from Erik's submissive form; it was only coldness that engulfed Christine. She took two steps back.

Then, one step forward.

Her hand rose, hovering just above his grossly sharp shoulders—which were lavished in exceptionally pretty silks. It was, then, that Erik must have felt the foreboding ghost of her touch, for he spoke again.

"Why? Why must you condemn your poor, unhappy Erik? Oh—how Erik yearns to walk in your image—one of such beauty and purity—yet cannot! Because of you, your undying woe—I cannot! No, no, no!"

Sickened, frustration piling, Christine set off to confront the pleading man; the terrible creature—who longed to be her gentleman—and, couldn't even turn and face her…as any _true_ _man_ would!

Alas: Christine was silenced, again.

"You have forsaken Erik! For you—in your name—I burn, I do! Yes, yes, yes! Fool! Wretched fool, you are! Oh! Do spare your false glory, fiend!"

The voice sharpened, words fueled by an unnatural hatred:

"FOOL! I DO IT ALL FOR YOU, I DO! BURN, WEEP—ALL, ALL, ALL! ONLY TO BE FORSAKEN!"

The power of his voice seemed to visibly shake Christine, for she tumbled backwards, her fall cushioned by a sanctuary of bubbly, chaste white skirts.

An almost painful sigh, then, much softer:

"Yes. Erik sacrifices all, yet you deny him still. Forever, forever, forever…"

Christine clenched and unclenched balled fists, needing to end Erik's frivolous plea, yet lacking the will to do so.

For, even now, she was falling at the beckoning whim of his voice! Erik's voice!

_Yes—forever I shall hear those sighs and pleas of his! Forever be haunted by him! Erik, Erik, Erik, _Christine's mind shouted in tantrum.

_Husband—oh, so hideous husband of mine! Do you not see? We both are doomed for eternity! To all that is good, what have you done?_

Christine's pretty eyes flooded with her destined tears, but she blinked them back, not allowing herself to shed _shared _tears.

"Erik is forever denied an Angel! Forgive me! Oh, you must, you must! For, such as Eve once was—I too have been tempted! Though, not by a serpent's sly words; no, no! Something much crueler, you surely see, you do! Yes, yes! Tempted by an angel is a far worse temptation, you do see!…"

A brief silence passed over the two angels before Erik completed his passionate words:

"Oh! So beautiful; so good and pure! Forgive me! My Angel—she is everything Erik is not! And, yet, with every soulless breath he takes—I love her so! Christine, Christine! Oh, so lovely Christine…even now, even as you shall lock me away within my own, _terribly_ beloved creation—I cannot hate you."

Christine cringed, bringing herself back to her feet and gathering her stolen words.

"Even now, I only can have love for you, Christine. Oh! You are such a good girl, you are! And, now, I shall die for you. I shall return home."

She forced her shaking hand to rise. Christine, once again, prepared herself to come in contact with that cold, unfeeling touch that she despised so much. One can only handle so much torment, so much pain! Soon, Christine swore, she would likely drown in those unending tears! _Cunning, deceitful, cruel, and…evil!_ Erik…all which the darkest of nightmare's consist of! And, yet, _his heavenly__ voice_…

No! What had to be done, needed to be done…or, woe onto her, indeed! So terrifying, this vile creature was! Horror, horror, horror!

_Monster!_

But, no—

Tears. True tears fell from his glimmering eyes in that terribly ugly Death's head, sounding through the cold. But, no—they were not ones of a Requiem Mass. They were not hypnotic sobs, pathetic cries for unearned forgiveness, or the deafening wails of a siren. Real tears. Erik battled his weakness and fright, struggling to hold back those tears. Was Erik afraid to die?

Tears…

Nearly left unheard, shed with only shame. The tears of a flesh and blood man.

A thin hand, wrapped in the whitest of white, smothered back Erik's_ feeling _cry. At first, Christine was sure the blaring white was simply that of Erik's grotesque hand—but, no. It was a fine satin which soaked up the last of his heartfelt tears.

He was dressed beautifully, ready to be put to rest.

Erik inhaled a deep and convulsed breath, readying himself for the inevitable; his fate to finally seal. His arched back raked in painful tremors, and Christine watched as he untied his mask. She tensed, preparing for twisted curses to be spat through his cruel, skeletal grin.

Instead, Erik pulled out a black handkerchief that had been folded into his coat's dressy pocket. Had Erik been blessed with a nose, he might have blown it. He gingerly wiped down the sopping wet mask's insides, dabbed at his swollen eyes, and replaced it to his wretched face. For the first time, Christine thought of how uncomfortable the mask must be for Erik…always plastered against his tortured flesh, sheltering his curse from her eyes. So dehumanizing. And yet, he had sentenced himself.

A last sigh resonated from the broken man.

Barely could Christine make out the last of his whispered prayer:

"And, so, _Lord_—though, I have never been a believer—oh, do forgive me, please! Alas! Why believe in you, while you deny belief in me? Erik!—No! No longer shall I plead for your mercy. No…only I ask that you adore my angel, my Christine, as I wish I might have…_Lord_, shower sweet Christine with the mercy, the warm caress of light and goodness, the freedom I have never known. Beautiful Christine Daaé…my love, my light."

An unsettling 'clank' broke the deadly quiet; startled, Erik flinched and turned, only to meet eyes with _himself._ Yes—the cold and tarnished glare, embedded within a metal death's head, stared blankly back.

* * *

_(a/n:_

_In case it wasn't clear, Christine dropped the key and fled away upon discovering he hadn't heard her come into his room, and was actually praying. She dropped the key in fright/shock. He (rightfully) assumed she would pick the torture chamber, so was preparing to die._

_Oh, and Sir Mannelig is a real Swedish folk song, and those were the actual lyrics._

_Wanted to do review responses for last chapter._

_VampPhan: Hoorary for crazy Erik! Thanks so much, and I'm glad your enjoying our poor, unhappy Erik!_

_Arcelia: Thank you! And I appreciate your tip on making things a bit clearer, as not to have to depend on an 'a/n.' I tried to do that this chapter, but still had to sneak in a little a/n. :(_

_My Favorite Crooked Smile: Lol, yep! But hopefully she can understand him a bit more, and be slightly forgiving for his wrongs, now that she's seen and heard this side of him._

_Jenny: Thank you, thank you! Glad you enjoyed the prior chapter's ending, and hope this one met your expectations. :D_

_LaurieLovesErik: Phanks! :D_

_TEAM EDWARD 8675309!: Oh, thank you! Haha, awww…poor Erik…maybe next time. -manic crawford style laughter-_

_The Duelist's Heiress: Glad you enjoyed, and thanks for your usual support._

_Madhatter45: Yay! My most prized, beloved reader! I'm very happy you liked the key concept, for your opinion means a ton! I always read your feedback a bajillion times. Your insights are phantastic! And I love how you pointed out that Christine hadn't truly felt love until returning the ring, because she had done so on her own will. _

_Sorry for not responding to reviews from earlier chapters. I truly appreciate every one of you! Big thank you to everyone else who tunes in!)_


	9. Where Once I was Blind, now I can see

_(a/n: Ahhh! So exicted! This is my FAVORITE CHAPTER by FAR…and I'm beyond honored to share it with my wonderful and incredibly patient readers!)_

_Previously_…

_Christine had chosen the key to the African Forest (Erik's torture-chamber). She walked into his bedroom, as to give him the key, and discovered that he was weeping frightened tears and praying to God. (In fear of dying and blessing Christine.) Startled, the key fell from her hands, clanking the floor in a loud noise. Erik, who was unaware of her presence until that moment, believed she had tossed the torture-chamber key at him._

* * *

_CHAPTER IX: Where Once I was Blind, now I can see_

Erik caressed his sleek mask in agonizing strokes, his mind lost to a strange and distant fog. The elegant arch of his back stiffened; for the first time, Erik found himself irritated and responding to the cellar's brutally cold air. Erik had 'lived' within the Opera's bowels for decades upon decades, and the bitter cold had always been a relief rather than disturbance. Grossly slim fingers coiled into the majestic coat as Erik drew it tight; his skeletal frame was devoured, intimately embraced by the finest of silks.

Exotic jewels and fine beading sparkled brilliantly, illuminated by the candelabra's faint ring of light. The cloak was fit for the likes of Persian royalty. Sashes draped sensually about like the crimson curtains which decorate the harem's seductive chambers. Ivory accents and elaborate beads beautifully trimmed the smooth folds.

Over the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan, the trap-door lover had spirited away a great number of the rarest jewels with his clever, magical touch. Erik had always been fond of rare beauty. (Not to mention, his desire to steal beauty) Diamonds of the Imperial Crown, emeralds from the Shah's contortion belt, sapphires worn by the palace's spoiled felines…Christine Daaé. The diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires were woven throughout the cloak's sweeping hems; Christine Daaé was nowhere to be seen. And, yet, Erik had created this royal garb for his and Christine's wedding-ball.

Erik thrice moaned his fate to no one: "She doesn't love me! She doesn't love me! She doesn't love me!"

She hated Erik; Christine had delivered his death sentence as he'd expected. The death's head key—the key which would unlock Erik's glorious torture-chamber—laid feet from his lavished and regal form. The bronze skull gleamed and flickered beneath the candelabra's fluttering light in a tantalizing, cruel dance. Erik stared down with morbid fascination, seduced by his token of ill fate. The two death head's—Erik and his twin key—glared at each other in a strange, almost comical challenge.

The bronze death head grinned a most terrible grin, merrily rejoicing in its victory; Erik grinned back in helpless defeat and despair. He adjusted the mask with a low moan. He was uncomfortable…he was tempted to remove the wretched thing. The salt of tears and sweat wallowed and mingled beneath, plastering the mask to his inflamed flesh. So dehumanizing! So dehumanizing and painful was his suffering! But Erik was brave and decided to leave his mask undisturbed.

Beneath it laid the sole reason of why Christine could never love him.

Erik winced as the bronze key continued to burn him—penetrating the leather of his mask. Such heat! Such unbearable heat! Erik was shivering and burning, all at once! He felt helpless…he felt as though he were sealed behind the treacherous mirrors of his torture-chamber! Is this how it felt…beyond the walls of his torture-chamber? Oh…he was going to be in his beloved torture-chamber very, very soon!

A twisted thrill shot through his body. It would be quite interesting…experiencing the iron (tree) wrath of _his own_ infamous chamber!

He had seen countless men suffer and melt away before his golden eyes…he saw as they grew mad and thirsty, shamelessly seduced by his chamber's final illusion: the tranquil oasis.

Many of these victims had summoned enough strength and willpower to survive Erik's African Forest. That breathtaking forest, with its towering trunks and massive branches, threw all of Erik's victims into a state of morbid awe. They were entranced by the landscape's uncanny beauty. Even the worldliest of men were tricked by such a flawless illusion. Indeed; they were enclosed within a beautiful nightmare.

Only a handful of Erik's victims had retained enough sanity to overcome the desert's scorching heat.

Not a single man had survived the oasis.

Erik chuckled sardonically beneath his ragged breath. He recalled the Vicomte's madness with amusement. Yes…the pretty Vicomte de Chagny had been born into luxury and had been blessed with a nose…but, in the end, he was as powerless as the common street-beggar.

Erik had triumphed once more; like everyone else, Paris' Vicomte de Chagny had been made a fool!

The Persian—who had also been trapped within Erik's torture-chamber, and had witnessed the mirrored illusions before—tried to convince Raoul that he was merely surrounded by six mirrors. He tried to convince Raoul that this was not a real forest. Alas! The Persian's words were in vain; he was unable to snap Raoul back into the tragic reality.

_An excerpt from the Persian's narrative (Chapter XXIV): _

_'I did my best to induce the poor viscount to listen to reason. I made him touch the mirrors and the iron tree and the branches and explained to him, by optical laws, all the luminous imagery by which we were surrounded and of which we need not allow ourselves to be the victims, like ordinary, ignorant people._

_Then he flatly told me to shut up, with my tricks of the mirrors, my springs, my revolving doors and my palaces of illusions! He angrily declared that I must be either blind or mad to imagine that all that water flowing over there, among those splendid, numberless trees, was not real water!…And the desert was real!…And so was the forest!…And it was no use trying to fool him in…he was an old, experienced traveler…he had been all over the place__!'_

Erik was seduced by the bronze death's head once more.

And, after a moment of intense thought, Erik withdrew his eyes. He was frightened. He was afraid to die. And that skull…that skull was grotesque. Monstrous! Half in tragic revelation, half in self-mockery, Erik laughed between choked and wheezy breaths.

The face was very, very ugly! So wonderfully ugly!…Erik identified with the bronze skull and made friends.

Just how long had Erik been praying? It must have been for quite some time…the candelabra was nearly burned out. Alas! He was keeping his poor Christine waiting!

Rising to his feet, an eerie chill swept through Erik, rattling every bone. A ghostly whisper moaned into his ear:

"_She has chosen! She has chosen! She has chosen! She had chosen, long ago! Long ago…"_

"Go away! Go away! Go away!" Erik replied with a strangled sob. "You have been troublesome enough! Can Erik not have some peace and quiet in his final moments? Humbug! Humbug! Humbug!"

The dumbstruck key stared blankly back. Erik glared down; he murmured Persian profanity.

Then he sighed in defeat, plundering to his hands and knees. Like a plotting serpent, he slithered over to the beckoning skeleton key, spitting venom between grinding teeth, his pasty hands wound into tight fists.

Erik was very tired and very worn. Erik was tired of this 'life.'

Annoyed and aggravated, Erik confronted and called after the key, crawling across the room like a wounded beast. "How in-cordial of you, my friend, not saving me the exertion at my old age!" Dangerously close to the key, he finished with a hiss, "to shame! To shame!"

Erik fell into dumb silence; he paralyzed upon reaching his destination.

His balled fist slowly unwound. Why, Erik had worn himself out for no reason at all! The journey across his bedchamber floor had been utterly pointless! Miraculously, _the key was already resting within his left hand. _The devil was left handed and Erik ambidextrous. Perhaps, his ability to use both hands with equal ease symbolized Erik's talent for both creation and destruction.

Erik stared down at the skeleton key and gasped in disbelief. How was such a thing possible? He never had fetched it from the floor!

But he quickly remembered his cleverness. Not the least bit amused, Erik scoffed at the stupid key. It was a dumb and unimpressive magic trick: sleight of hand. Pfft! It was the first magic trick that Erik had taught himself.

"Yes," Erik mumbled, "we have always been most clever, haven't we? AHHH. How the little sultana would laugh! Eh, eh? Laugh, laugh, laugh!" Erik and the terrible key shared a nostalgic laugh.

Indeed, Erik had always been able to manipulate his surroundings with a haunting and flawless grace. Whether it be a mirrored torture-chamber, a crashing chandelier, or the majestic wrath of Red Death…Erik's talent for manipulation and illusion never had faltered.

Yet…when it had come to the human race…Erik was powerless. Erik sighed; in the end, it was a pretty face which sealed his cursed fate. In both his life and death, the lovely Christine Daaé had been his weakness. Now, Christine Daaé was to destroy and defeat Erik—her poor, unhappy creation.

Erik had always thrived as a ghost, dying as a man.

Christine Daaé might have redeemed Erik. Christine Daaé might have even learned to not see the mask.

But Christine Daaé had chosen to break Erik's heart. Poor thing; she was no more than a handicapped, blind child—stubbornness being her one crutch.

Erik gave a choked sob. How missed her voice! How he ached to hear her sing a last time! Oh! She would have sung his Requiem Mass so beautifully!—

Erik's wandering thoughts were cut short; the bronze was searing his palm!

This key—this little key of both 'death' and illusion—was _Erik's mask__!_ Yes. The ugly truth had been unmasked: From the moment of Erik's birth, this malicious death head had been his disguise.

Erik adjusted his satin cloak and hissed at his brother. "Demon of mine, Erik is quite tired…yes, quite tired, indeed…shall we go home?"—a sharp nod and a handsome shrug later—"After you."

Erik was polite to the cruel key.

Erik was very collected and cordial to the bronze fiend.

Erik had lived as a corpse.

Erik ensured that he would die as a gentleman.

* * *

Erik stood beneath the Louis-Philippe doorway.

He spoke with a haunting eloquence:

"Erik has taken the liberty to refurbish his African Forest quite nicely, mademoiselle. I should hope it is much to your liking. The desert is warmer and the oasis a musical paradise. I dare say this will be Erik's art at its finest." He stepped into the room, moving like a shadow. The scone lamp glowed behind him, transforming him into a menacing silhouette. "I assure you shall not be disappointed."

Erik moved towards Christine's bed until he stood feet away. His cloak followed behind him like a king's regal train. And, like a true phantom, he seemed to be suspended and floating—rather than walking.

Christine gave a cry and shrank backwards; her back grinded against the mahogany headboard, little body trembling.

"Ah! Erik has waken you, I see. Not to worry, my dearest—he shall wake you no longer." He chuckled sardonically, amused by himself and the absurdity of these last moments as a walking corpse. "Indeed, my dear, indeed!" She shriveled back impossibly more. "There is no reason for alarm, Christine. A sleeping corpse is far less dangerous!"

Erik outstretched his gloved hand for her taking. Christine studied him with great intent. He was so stiff!…so lifeless and _unusually_ cold! His golden eyes were lost to the darkness; they seemed to have dimmed.

Hand still outstretched, Erik tilted his head, puzzled and disturbed by her penetrating stare. She swallowed, raising her hand until it lingered midair—inches above Erik's. She was paralyzed…hypnotized by those tarnished eyes. Poor, unhappy Erik!

"Cold feet, my dear?"

Oh! She was quite disgusted with her Erik. She had no desire to touch his hand. But no! He would not tremble! He would not show his heartache at Christine's disgust! He could not!

Erik madly fought to keep his composure. His speech was oily and slick as ink; but Erik's trembling hand had already betrayed him. Christine's gaze dropped from his eyes—settling on the quivering hand which was pleading for her touch. She swallowed.

"Oh, Christine! You look terribly, terribly ill! Would you like a moment to yourself, my dear?"

Christine shook her head, curls bouncing in cruel objection. "I am ready, Erik." Christine released a long breath.

Her tiny hand lost itself within their joined grip.

* * *

"Now," Erik flung his fedora hat atop an overflowing coat hanger. His cratered skull came into full view…hideous as ever. Familiar though it was, Christine gave a soft cry and turned away. Erik said and did nothing. He was gradually becoming numb. Erik had grown indifferent to the world around him.

"Erik has left a rather extensive list of instructions within your little bedchamber…you shall find it amongst your perfumes and trinkets with ease. It is a map, of sorts. Erik has sketched the path to your freedom in very fine detail."

Christine paralyzed at his words. Her oceanic eyes froze over, cold as ice. Her hands buried and latched onto the folds of her dress, twisting violently, needing an outlet for her seething rage. She could not believe her ears! She stalked towards the monster like a feline, claws readily drawn.

"The path to freedom? Path to freedom! YOU have sketched the path to MY FREEDOM! MY FREEDOM!"

She caught her breath and swallowed. Her eyes squeezed shut in boiling frustration. "All this time…all this time there was a path to MY freedom! All those wasted tears!"

Dangerously close to Erik, chest puffed out like a startled fowl, "Liar! Liar! Liar! My tears do not give you 'great pain!' You rather enjoy them, don't you, Erik?" Tears tumbled down her lovely cheeks. "You…you like to see me cry! Does this make you happy, Erik?" Erik turned away, unable to stomach the tragic sight before him. "NO! Don't you dare turn away from me! Look into my eyes!"

She sniffled and cursed herself, brushing away those stubborn tears. "Look at me, Erik, and confess that you take 'great pleasure' in my tears!"

The subconscious voice—that tortuous voice which she had abandoned months ago—whispered to her:

_Shut up, you weak and miserable girl! _

_Why does it pain you so much?…Why are you so hurt, Christine Daaé? _

_Do not deny it: You weep because your tears no longer give Erik pain. Has he become indifferent to me?_

The little voice went unheard by Christine.

She madly pranced like a cat in heat. She attacked him!

But he simply captured her lunging wrists in a suave and swift motion. Erik steadied her fight with little to no effort, lean posture straight as an arrow. Christine squirmed in his hold, spouting uncharacteristic profanity between huffed breaths. Erik waited leisurely for her tantrum to cool. She wore herself out in moments.

Freeing her wrists, "Much better, my dear. Indeed, Erik has deceived you, once more. But why the alarm, Christine? Hmm? Why must you quarrel about like a restless, little tot? Why do you attack Erik like a taunted feline? And why have your pretty features flushed so? Yes…you are surprised!…You look as though you've set eyes upon a ghost!"

Erik took a moment to chuckle at the word 'ghost.'

"And yet, Erik is no ghost—NO, DEAR, NOT A GHOST! NOT YET, HE ISN'T! Come now! You shan't be so faded. Such deception is quite natural…after all, he did it for you! Erik took great care to claw out from this miserable burrow for his wife!"

Christine's eyes narrowed as she took several steps back.

"How did he do this, you ask? How did Erik ever manage to burrow out from here? Remember, dear: Erik is a trap-door lover, and can come and go as he pleases. And—as you already know—the walls obey HIM AND HIM ALONE."

Christine stepped forward; Erik eyed her clenched fists with a groan. "Oh, come now, silly dear! You shan't be so vexed! Yes, yes…Erik left for 'above'…but only in the interest of his little wife! Like any good husband, he only wished to tend to his wife's needs. After all, dear, a LIVING wife must EAT FROM TIME TO TIME!"

Christine shook as anger swam through her boiling veins. She convulsed, ready to erupt.

"Wife? Wife? You fiend! You despicable wretch! No—no, you are right in that: I am not so vexed. I really should have known better! I should have known the sly ways of a serpent!—"

"Serpent? What serpent! There are an abundance of grasshoppers and scorpions down here—no serpents, I am afraid."

"I NEVER CHOSE THE SCORPION! I NEVER CHOSE YOU! I hate you, Erik! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

Erik slinked back.

"I SHALL NEVER LOVE YOU, ERIK. Miserable, ugly creature! I might have been clever, and not have chosen the 'African Forest.' Perhaps, I shall have a change of heart! Perhaps, I should choose that you live. Perhaps, I'd rather choose the 'Deciduous Forest!' I have no _desire_ to humor your vows! 'Till death do us part!' And, might I add: you are not as clever as you believe yourself to be!"

Seething with sarcasm, "Miserable? Ugly? What's this, you say! Erik's miserably ugly? My, my! What a surprise!" Dully, "YOU are anything BUT clever."

Erik snickered, long arms folding across his chest with a heavy sigh.

"And, MIGHT I ADD, you, mademoiselle, _no nothing_ _of desire."_

He paced towards her, steps inspired by a new (and painfully raw) emotion. "You blind child, Christine Daaé!…You _once __desired _music…yes, very much so…you once wept for your poor, unhappy Erik._"_

Voice rising to a thunderous roar, "LOOK! LOOK AROUND! Go on, have a look round! Don't you see? Apollo's Musical Lair is at your feet! We might have swooned and sung together—as we once had, before you saw the face of the voice. You could have been the happiest of women! You, MISS Daaé, might have been the most exquisite soprano Paris has yet to see. But no! You see no Musical Lair! You see DEATH! Ahh, Erik knows now! You are BLIND."

He ached for Christine to perceive the beauty of the world; he ached to open her eyes. She was knowledgeable of the things of life, not in their significances.

Tears rolled down her porcelain cheeks. Erik continued to inch towards her, steps long and tedious; he was in no rush. He seemed to stalk Christine, like a hawk hunting its doomed prey. Trembling, she trudged backwards…till her back slammed up against the wall.

"Have you forgotten? Erik taught you to SING, my dear. And now…_"_ Inches from Christine, "Erik shall teach you to SEE."

Christine gasped, whilst Erik seized her hands with rough affection. They played a rather childish game of tug-a-war; Erik pulled forward and she pulled back. Forward, back, forward, back…

"Come, come along! Come, dear—come, this way. Do not fret so!"

Forward, back, forward, back…

Christine fought a losing battle as Erik dragged her in the trail of his eager footsteps.

Soon enough, they had reached his bedchamber. Christine shrieked and cowered back. His fingers snaked around her delicate wrists—pulling her into the horror that was his room.

_BANG!_

Erik slammed his door shut. He waved a slick hand over the bronze doorknob_. Click!_

It locked beneath his magical touch. "Ah hah! No keys for the trap-door lover! No keys, indeed! DOORS OBEY ERIK!"

Christine shuffled backwards, glassy eyes never daring to leave Erik. Her felt the penetration of her stare.

He turned round menacingly in a fluid motion, cloak hissing a foreboding swish. What a divine spectacle: the jeweled cloak fanned out all around him, serving as his regal and blackened wings.

He spoke calmly. Between every few words, he took a step towards Christine.

Hands spread wide, gesturing the morbid bedchamber:

"Why are you frightened so?…Why does Erik's bedchamber turn your fair skin so white? There is nothing to harm you in here. You agree? Come now, Christine! Don't shake your head at me—you fool no one. Your eyes betray your objection, dear. You know Erik adores you. You know he would never touch a single hair on your pretty little head. You know he shall gladly _die_ for you."

Erik moaned and cupped his heart. "Oh, Christine, my love. I would die a thousand deaths if I knew you were waiting for me."

Christine continued to slink backwards in stupefied horror; Erik closed in on her.

"Ummm…Christine, my songbird…you really ought to stand still."

Christine continued to move backwards at a quickened pace.

"Christine…Christine…quit moving, would you? Quit running from me! Don't you know my mother ran from me! She screamed and threw me my mask—she was quite afraid of her abomination. She trembled, as you are trembling now. Christine! Do not be afraid: I love you. I would never, never harm you. Why do you not believe me?…Why, Christine, do you fear me…when I only want to love you?…Oh, dear me, dear me, dear me…STOP MOVING! Quit moving from Erik…quit moving away, if you do not wish to plummet into—"—_THUMP!—_"Erik's coffin."

Christine screamed bloody murder! All Paris might have heard those piercing cries! Without thinking, Erik threw both hands to either side of his head—cupping his assaulted ears.

Then he groaned and rushed to her in a panic. "My love! My heart's love! Curse me! Living wives do not belong in coffins!"

Erik towered above her, staring down. He collapsed to the crutch of his knees with a broken heart. Erik reached out to his scorned beloved in desperation, attempting to rescue Christine from his dreadful coffin. But she was far too busy squirming and kicking in a mad frenzy; she was far too proud to be rescued from a coffin by its resident corpse. She clawed at the sides with choked breaths, struggling to climb up and out to her safety. Erik's face sank forward; why was she so blinded?

Christine lost all her pretty coloring and was white as a sheet. Erik's coffin was becoming of her; she looked dead.

"Christine…" Her name was spoken through a rich purr. Christine immediately fell limp at the delightful music of her name.

Erik's masterful hands wrapped her trembling shoulders. Cool fingers coiled around them completely—his touch was gentle but demanding. A rare confidence welled within Erik; his bedchamber was considerably dark. Darkness was his friend…his security blanket and one comfort. Christine could see nothing; Erik, with his eyes of gold, could see everything. They penetrated the throbbing shroud of darkness with ease.

She shriveled beneath his death-cold touch, sinking into the satin lining—till, like a true corpse, she had laid in a full reclining position.

It was…beautiful. Like a true phantom, the face of the Voice had vanished.

Within her despair, Christine's Angel of Music had returned! Christine perceived only beauty. The morbid darkness melted into a luminous, hopeful portal to Heaven.

With the immaculate power and influence of his voice, Erik calmed Christine's fears and relaxed her soul. He hummed a rich, soothing lullaby—and Christine became perfectly silent and still, mesmerized by her Angel's singing. The frightening and morbid surroundings seemed to dissolve; Christine withered beneath the divinity of Erik's voice. And the Voice was pure in every sense; unlike the lewd demands of Don Juan, the Voice was a thing of divinity and cleansed beauty. It was the Voice of Heaven—a relief to Christine's unblemished, virgin soul. She shamelessly basked beneath its light.

Christine saw no masked madman, ghost, nor phantom; Christine saw her beloved Angel of Music. She had missed her maestro very, very much. Seeing Christine submit to him so freely was a painful thing for Erik to endure; it was a grim reminder of Christine's passionate loathing for his face. He cursed his fate. Why, he sobbed, had he been cursed with the voice of Heaven? It was cruel and malicious taunt. Such deception was akin to smelling a rose—only to be stung by a bee!

Regardless, Erik brushed his brooding and self-pity aside; he allowed Christine to enjoy this rare sliver of peace.

The gentle vibrations of his heavenly voice resonated through his deft fingertips:

_"Sleep, child, sleep, peace attends thee…_

_All through the night, guardian angels God sends thee…_

_Home through the night, earthly dust is shaken…_

_All through our night, by good angels art thou taken…_

_Soul, immortal soul, finally awaken…"_

Her countless dreams had been brought to life: Christine felt and heard her angel's voice.

She tenderly united with the adorable Voice which she had grown to love. Erik sang beneath melodic breaths, fingertips shyly running through her curls. Oh! Erik had laid awake numberless nights, haunted by Christine…fantasizing how her lovely hair might feel against his flesh.

He had to know!

He knew it was forbidden to him!—he knew such an intimate touch was sinful to him…

Surely, husbands touch their wives' curls…from time to time? Don't they?

Erik was due at the African Forest.

Erik was about to die.

Erik was about to die, and wished to touch her hair.

Erik fulfilled his dying wish.

He stripped away the satin gloves in sudden urgency. He inhaled a thick breath, ghosted his hands over her hair…and tentatively stroked her beautiful curls. Alas! They were even softer than he had imagined! His soul blushed.

Christine's lips curved into a faint smile; she had missed her Angel.

She stared up at Erik, ample bosoms rising and sinking with calm, composed breaths.

Erik sighed; his fingers pulled through her curls a last time.

Satisfied and personally fulfilled, the Angel of Music resumed Christine's lesson. She watched in _hypnotic_ awe, as a pair of twinkling stars curtsied above her eyes.

Speaking AND humming, all at once:

"This, Christine…this is where Erik sleeps, my dearest. What do you see? You see _a coffin!…_But why, Christine? Why must you SEE a coffin?"

Madly trembling, Erik captured one of her hands in his. He resumed humming and speaking, gently guiding her hand across the sleek wood.

"You have touched Erik's _bed._ Let me see your hand, my dear."

He took a moment to look it over. Her skin felt like silky cream within his grotesque palm. He worshiped it.

Christine had never been touched with such adoration. Erik was as gentle and docile as a lamb.

"Yes…your hand is as lovely as before. Go on…feel Erik's bed still…feel the wood…very smooth wood, is it not? SEE, Christine—it is WOOD. Only wood. Why do you insist to SEE a coffin, when you FEEL the charming wood of a ficus? Isn't the texture most pleasant? Like you, a ficus is a thing of beauty! Have you ever seen a ficus tree, my dear? No, no—you shan't waist your breath—Erik knows…Erik knows you have not…but you HAVE certainly SEEN a coffin before now…and so you FEEL a coffin."

Christine closed her eyes; beyond her shut gaze, she imagined an exquisite ficus tree towering above her.

Erik came to his feet, offering Christine his hand.

"Come, come along, my child." His voice was liquid velvet.

Erik helped her up and out with a sweet touch; he steadied her wobbly body, fearing for her. "Poor girl. You have worked yourself into exhaustion."

And, with the same haunting grace…she was led to his organ:

"Look here, Christine: the pipes are quite tall…the pipes are quite menacing…"

Erik waved a hand across her eyes in a suave motion; like magic, they instantly fell shut.

And then…

An enchanting, breathtaking melody cried out. Erik's skeletal fingers danced across the ivory keys with an intimate caress. He played the organ as one would a lover. Christine's body tightened at the gentle melody—wildly affected by Erik's genius.

"What do you hear? The wedding-night song? Indeed! It is quite lovely! And you are rather enjoying it…no longer do you tremble…Erik has calmed his Christine. Open your eyes, my dear! Come along! Do not fear!"

Christine did as her Angel commanded.

"The pipes loom above still…yes, yes, they do…for organ pipes do not walk." Twisted and malformed lips lifted with a knowing grin. "Though, organ pipes most certainly talk." Christine betrayed herself and smiled. Erik chuckled at her amusement—a rich, silky sound.

He was lost to his own brilliance. Erik sang with every ounce of his unquenchable passion; never had Christine heard something so heroically sweet, more delicate, more powerful, more irresistibly triumphant than her Angel's voice, as he sang Romeo and Juliet's Wedding-night Song:

_"Ô pur bonheur! (O pure happiness!)_

_Ô joie immense! (O immense joy!)_

_Le ciel même a reçu nos serments amoureux! (The sky even received our oaths in love!)_

_Dieu de bonté! (Goodness god!)_

_Dieu de clémence! (Clemency is god!)_

_Sois béni par deux cœurs heureux! (Is blessed by two happy hearts!)"_

She tingled with a thrill unknown to mankind. She soared into Apollo's Lair, swooning beneath her master's lacy wings. She worshiped her Angel of Music; Christine would have gladly sacrificed her mind, flesh and soul on a silver platter within those decadent moments. Christine had never seen anything more beautiful than those sickly, inhuman hands.

"Now, my dove: do you SEE THE PIPES or HEAR THE WEDDING-NIGHT SONG, Christine Daaé? Which?"

She heard the wedding-night song.

Christine's face titled back, drinking in the menacing metal pipes. Her widened eyes descended down to the dark angel. The bejeweled cloak shined with regal elegance, draping over Erik's rocking form, flitting beside his heels; his boot drummed and tapped, in sync with the moaning music.

Everything about Erik proved musical. The rhythm of his breathing; the sway of his foul, skeletal form. Erik played the glory of his music awhile longer, the slight arch of his back flexing with every stroke. His hands violated the keys in a sensual dance, milking the organ of its brilliance. Erik looked like the king of the underworld.

Erik's masterful hands slid from the ivory keys with a heartfelt sigh. He paralyzed, wrestling some inner demon. After an intense pause, Erik fetched 'Don Juan Triumphant.'

"Christine, my love…step a bit closer…step a bit closer so you may SEE THIS."

Her body heat radiated, brushing against Erik.

Don Juan Triumphant was flipped open in a graceful movement. He fanned through the endless, yellowed pages of his life's work.

"The notes are written in crimson—see how they are composed of a deep red? A most unholy red! I fear crimson and blood are much alike…you agree, my dear? You agree that crimson and blood are much alike? Yes? But _why_ are they much alike? Why must you see BLOOD when Erik has written NOTES built OF DESIRE?"

A choked sound erupted from Erik's throat. Don Juan Triumphant flew from his trembling hands, seemingly spooked by its unhappy creator, spinning down to his boots. It sat and waited there, as a dog clings beside her master's heel, gazing up at him through despairing eyes.

Erik adjusted his mask, blushing beneath the leather.

"Never mind Don Juan. It is far too late for him: I fear he has been struck by the fire of Hell…nearly twenty years ago. But you, Christine…you are nothing short of divine. And Erik…he desires you very, very much. Oh—please, look away, now, look away, look away! I implore you! Look away from me! My dear—do not make this harder for Erik than it must be."

Erik's humming had stopped for quite some time. Christine had regained control of her sense faculties. The Angel of Music returned to Heaven. It was Erik who stood before her.

But she did not scream. She did not run. She did not tremble.

Instead, she respected Erik's wish and averted her eyes.

"Tell me: can you not see me?—Can you no longer see my mask? Tell me you cannot see me, Christine. Oh!—Thank you, my dear…you are such a good girl! So good to your poor, unhappy Erik."

Erik took a deep breath—summoning courage. "You have obeyed, and are not looking…now, Erik has the liberty to speak his wretched words."

Inches from Christine, Erik sank to the crutch of his knee, face shamefully bent forward. She was staring at the organ.

A moment of hesitation passed by before Erik spoke.

His shaky voice seemed to grow clearer with each word.

And each of Erik's words were spoken in first-person dialect.

"Before I saw the beauty of you face, I heard the beauty of your voice. You were not so different than I. Forgive me for saying—but you made for a lovely corpse. You had no soul! Oh! You had tormented me! I burned…I burned to give you the soul which I had been eternally denied! I desired you to live! So I gave you my voice. I wept at its beauty. How proud I was of my sweet Christine! And alas! You had resurrected, Christine! My poor heart soared indefinitely as you resurrected before my very eyes! My soul reached divine heights—heights which I never thought reachable! No, certainly not reachable by the _looks_ of me…You had resurrected, and I wept at your birth. And I fell in love with you. I crowned you my LIVING WIFE."

Erik groped at his racing heart as his head lolled back.

"My voice is a powerful thing, Christine. I could have bewitched you without thought. You see, the snakes were very fond of me back in Persia; I used to charm them, as Don Juan charms his maidens. I could have hypnotized and charmed you into my arms. But, no…I never desired such a thing. _I only wanted to be loved for myself." _

Timidly, blushing like a young schoolboy, he chanced a look up at his Christine. His heart soared into Apollo's Lair…and further yet.

Erik swallowed, his heart madly trembling. She had never looked more beautiful.

And…in that moment…weeping eyes, _both of bright blue and tarnished gold_, had mingled.

"Why do you cry, Christine? You know it gives me great pain to see you cry."

Her lips lifted at _those_ words—the slightest bit.

Erik bowed forward, collecting Christine's sullied skirts within his hands. He kissed their hem. Erik's rekindled, golden eyes buried into Christine's sapphire gaze. He searched for her soul.

"Have you ever seen me, Christine?"—his voice cracked—_"_Have you seen me, and not the mask?"

Christine withdrew her eyes from Erik, silent and still.

"Oh, Christine…"

Erik buried his masked face within the folds of her skirts once more, chest raking in violent shudders. But he did not weep.

Oh, how he ached to inhale her femininity! How he ached to create an eternal and everlasting memory—which could follow him far past the grave!

He ached to experience Christine's beauty with all five senses!

But Erik had no nose.

"Come along, Christine Daaé. You are free. The African Forest awaits."


	10. Sweet Delirium

_(a/n: Sorry for taking so long for an update! A very big turn/reversal occurs in this chapter! I'm eager to hear and any all your thoughts! Please enjoy! Xoxo. In the previous chapter Erik was about to leave for his torture-chamber__…_)

_Previously…_

_Erik bowed forward, collecting Christine's sullied skirts within his hands. He kissed their hem. Erik's rekindled, golden eyes buried into Christine's sapphire gaze. He searched for her soul._

_"Have you ever seen me, Christine?"—his voice cracked—"Have you seen me, and not the mask?"_

_Christine withdrew her eyes from Erik, silent and still._

_"Oh, Christine…"_

_Erik buried his masked face within the folds of her skirts once more, chest raking in violent shudders. But he did not weep. __Oh, how he ached to inhale her femininity! How he ached to create an eternal and everlasting memory—which could follow him far past the grave!_

_He ached to experience Christine's beauty with all five senses! __But Erik had no nose._

_"Come along, Christine Daaé. You are free. The African Forest awaits."_

* * *

_CHAPTER X: Sweet Delirium_

"Heaven?"

The forbidden word fell from his mouth through a strange and choked sigh. His head was spinning like a toy top. Everything was obscured and foreign; he was surely dead.

The angelic vision quickly confirmed such an impossible assumption.

Mesmerized and entranced, he focused all of his attention on the divine spectacle which seemed to float above him. And what a spectacle it was! A crown of erratic and golden curls cushioned a porcelain complexion, appearing as no more than a glowing halo within the limitless night. It was a pale, oceanic gaze which peered down at him, lovely and wide as saucers, inflamed with a curious emotion…an emotion which he could not begin to name. Lips, painted a deep and devilish red, clashed against the china doll face. And a crème nightdress was draped over this entire vision.

Erik's regal cloak had been meticulously and respectfully folded on the floor; the rare gems sparkled, twinkled and glittered, resembling a multitude of colorful stars. A distant and flitting glow shattered the grave expanse of black, staining the Louis-Philippe wall with its wavering shaft of light. A single candle rested atop the small and humble dresser, flickering and dancing, offering its slim illumination. The mighty shadows, which had shone through the darkness in the incarnation of demons, had proved fine company over the hours of Erik's fatal state.

Entering back into the realm of consciousness, Erik was startled to discover that he was tucked into Christine's bed—rather than reclining within the familiar confines of his coffin. Both of his arms were extended at his sides, unnaturally and awkwardly straight. The coverlet was secured around his stiff, mummy form like a sort of vise—snug as a straight jacket and fastened beneath his chin.

Erik vainly fought the overwhelming wave of exhaustion which crashed and coursed through his veins. It claimed both his mind and body in a lucid and unsettling haze. He was dizzy, disconnected and only faintly aware of his surroundings. Erik had lived through countless horrors—he had survived unimaginable horrors and tortures over his fifty-five years—and yet, he found himself aching with pains he never thought could exist. His throat was dry, crusty and parched.

A merciless throbbing echoed his mind, loud and deafening. Beads of sweat streamed down his flesh, burning with the resemblance of bitter tears. His teeth chattered like a pair of tin cymbals, tightly gritted and grinding in agony. Erik was disoriented and uncomfortable, struggling to draw breaths and conjure his thoughts.

It was a true wonder that Erik had ever managed to survive his African Forest. He had been unconscious, defeated and lifeless, lying before the threshold of death…and Christine had intervened in spite of herself. Erik had been saved by an angel…his angel…the better half of his soul_, _his precious Christine Daaé.

A great, unsolvable mystery had descended not so long before. Christine should have sighed in relief at the thought of her captor's death, whilst Erik had surrendered to his infamous tortures. Instead, only her mind had triumphed. Yes, her mind had triumphed and celebrated…while both heart and soul had mourned her loss.

In spite of herself, Christine had sung to him, her soft vocals comforting Erik like a blanket; she had offered her very soul, burning with unexpected thoughts and confusing feelings. In spite of herself, Christine had tucked Erik into her Louis-Philippe bed, bowed down her pale face, and knelt silently at his side. In spite of herself, she had taken his hand into her grip, lifting the smell of death up to her trembling lips, kissing the ghastly flesh with shut eyes. In spite of herself, she had recited a whispered prayer, seeking the Lord's good mercy on behalf her unhappy Erik. In spite of herself, Christine had breathed her teary farewell, stroked and straightened the stringy tufts of Erik's hair, convinced he was already long dead.

She had watched in pure fascination, as the corpse had slowly come to life in her wake. She had tried to revive him with no avail; it was the magic of her which voice had resurrected Erik. It was the same blessed voice which the Angel of Music had granted her with, all those months ago…

And now, Erik was resting within the walls of her chamber, quite possibly lying in his deathbed.

A ghostly hand rose from the mattress in a suave, handsome movement.

"Hello, Erik," Christine greeted.

Sinfully long fingers—the multi-talented fingers of a musician…a true artist—coiled weakly around the curve of Christine's delicate chin. Erik tentatively lifted her sunken face with his deft fingertips, aligning their two piercing stares; exhaustion called, once again, and his fingers slowly slipped away, returning to the mattress. Eyes of royal blue instantly lowered, peering beneath a dark and elegant fan of lashes. Erik looked up at the angelic face and golden halo with a beautiful, trembling sigh.

"Heaven…"

The adorable Voice quivered with unbridled and unfathomable emotion. Erik sang his own requiem mass. _Dies Irae…_

_"Day of wrath! O day of mourning!  
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,  
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!_

_Oh, what fear man's bosom rendeth,  
when from heaven the Judge descendeth,  
on whose sentence all dependeth._

_Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth;  
through earth's sepulchers it ringeth;  
all before the throne it bringeth._

_Death is struck, and nature quaking,  
all creation is awaking,  
to its Judge an answer making…"_

The poor creature had poured out his very heart and soul. Erik's skeletal form rattled, shook and rolled, convulsing against the damp bed sheet._  
_

No words could do justice to the spectrum of feelings…thoughts…desires…regrets…and emotions which Erik's requiem had inspired within Christine Daaé. It could only be described as purely seraphic.

Christine cupped her heart in vain; it beat and raced against her tingling palm, devoured by the beauty of her Angel's voice. Curls blanketed the glory of her shoulders like a diva's shawl. Her face toppled into a pair of creamy palms. Soul-shattering sobs raked her tiny hunched figure and thick tears spilled from her insides. They threatened to drown the both of them with their sheer intensity and power.

"Behold: the Angel weeps! Such pain! Alas! Even far beyond the grave, they strike Erik with great and unbearable pain." Christine's hands melted from her cheeks; his voice—that voice she had once grown to know and love—soothed her with its unearthly brilliance.

Her thoughts mindlessly drifted on their own accord. His words from mere hours ago haunted her conscious: _"Oh, Christine, my love. I would die a thousand deaths if I knew you were waiting for me."_

Christine had to look away.

"Dear heart…dear angel, darling Christine…Erik's little Christine…do not cry!" The black sockets suddenly glowed—ignited by a childish fascination and lined with an epiphany. Erik propped onto his elbows with a small grin. "Heavens!…Heaven? Dearest Christine…you…you waited, did you? Alas! Christine waited for her poor Erik!"

His arms buckled and gave away. Erik's entire form clenched, as he was attacked by a series of sharp shudders—victim to another spell of excruciating pain.

Christine sniffled, wiped at her tear-stained cheeks, hiccoughed, and bravely scooted nearer to Erik with only slight reflectance. A deep frown muddled her pure complexion. Her charming features were wilted by a distinct sorrow. She breathlessly gazed down at the tragedy which lay before her.

His agony was palpable. His suffering was undeniable. His awful tears were human. Erik's pain and torment were _real_. Christine's skin tightened all around her bones, suffocating her, constricting her blood flow. Her heart pounded against the prison of mortal mesh, as if it knew she had long time betrayed it. The tension which Erik's misery projected was insufferable. She felt she would split down the very seam.

Her heart madly raced, destined to burst free from her breast.

A piercing, blood-curdling scream split the air in two. Christine paralyzed, staring down, terror-stricken and entirely helpless.

Erik thrashed about, tossing and turning, heaving erratic and uneven breaths. Strange, guttural sounds exploded from his majestic lungs in a chilling symphony. Christine was completely struck by a morbid awe; despite the indescribable fit of pain, Erik's voice had remained immaculate and devastatingly beautiful.

But he was wildly drunk on his delirium.

"Ha ha ha ha ha ! Ha ha ha! Fate, you have certainly outdone yourself! Imagine that! A demon—ERIK, the demon—up in Heaven! Ha ha ha ha!"

He laughed maniacally—half in relief, half in cruel self-mockery. The heatstroke had inspired a wide-range of hallucinations. The gibberish from Erik's episodes was akin to the most melodramatic of operas. Musical and pleasantly rhythmic, they had varied from heart wrenching declarations of love…to wicked threats and the evil musings of a madman.

Erik's lovely voice had spoken nonsense over many of the hours. Had she not been in fear for his life, Christine would have found many of the mindless ramblings quite comical:

_"You great booby! Erik obeys no one; everyone obeys Erik. The fellow who never makes a mistake takes his orders from one who does! HAH!"_

_"You shan't fret so, milord! A bird in the hand is safer than one soaring overhead!"_

_"But my dear daroga, age is a very high price to pay for maturity!"_

_"Oh, I am quite tired of this life, daroga! Quite tired of it, I tell you! Why, if I could drop dead right now, I should be the happiest man alive!"_

_"The Angel of Death? Ah, the little Sultana requests the Angel of Death! Oh, you mustn't scowl, good darago. Has Erik not told you? Only the lazy man shall be visited by the Angel of Death!" _And so on.

Erik's disturbing laughs mutated into a series of strangled sobs…then into a combination of tremors and deadly shivers…settling back into a comfortable fit of his heaved chuckles.

"Do calm yourself, Erik. You really mustn't work yourself into further exhaustion."

Erik's cackling faded away at the angel's serene command; but he bit his lip to keep from giggling. She arched her slim brow, glaring down through her eyelashes, apparently crossed with such disobedience and infantile behavior.

Her hand eased towards his face; Erik's head strained against the pillow, behaving like a poor mongrel who's only known beatings. He flinched and recoiled from her touch on pure instinct, not understanding the simple gesture. God in Heaven, Erik adored Christine Daaé! Never had she looked so pure…so pure and so impossibly beautiful…as she did in that very moment.

Christine quietly sighed as her hand continued its brave descent. She pressed the back of her hand to his scorching forehead as she checked his fever with careful a reverence—much like a mother would her dear child. The wretched thing was on fire. How strange! She was used to Erik being cold—as cold as Death.

Erik gasped and struggled to roll away, handicapped by his inability to move and a fogged mind. He resorted to bellowing like some wounded beast, unable to do much more. He could not stir a limb. After a frivolous fight, Erik relaxed the slightest bit, surrendering both his pride and nerves to Christine's apparent determination.

He peeled back the coverlet in a haunting motion, moving with the grace of a ghost. Her heart froze and ceased to pulse as Erik glanced down at himself very, very wearily. He drank in the horror of his reclined body with a numb and detached consciousness. His dress shirt was peeled upon, exposing his emaciated form and jutting ribs.

Familiar whiplashes and knife wounds engraved every inch of Erik—each serving as just another token of the human race's loathing and hatred. He had been branded by humanity's evilness. Many of his scars were deep and gruesome, appearing as craters and foul mounds of corrupt flesh. Foreign burn marks artistically twisted the translucent wax of his skin, warping Erik's foul appearance beyond all recognition. She had never seen Erik without his dress-clothes; the awful sight, the full extent of his suffering, was startling to her. Christine had adopted a life of tragedy, and, yet, nothing could have ever prepared her for the horror which had met her eyes.

Panic flooded the hollow contour of his features. Erik's hands jolted up and harshly collided with his nude face; he struck and beat himself…he raked at the infertile terrain with a spine-chilling sneer, scratching, scraping and clawing. Horror! Horror! Horror!

"Erik! By God! What is the meaning of this…this madness? Do stop! Please! You must!"

Christine's face became a dumbfounded mask of horror.

Erik's self mutilation simply escalated at the brittle sound of his angel's voice. His elegant fingertips had vanished completely. Magic. Erik's thin film of flesh was stretched around his skull like the skin on a drum-head. He slashed it open with ease, freeing a crimson waterfall. His veins pulsed and throbbed, many peeking out from the loose flaps of skin. Blood streamed and seethed down his monstrous face in thick strides—a grim incarnation of scarlet tears. The coverlet fell away, pooling at the foot of the sleigh bed in a pile of liquid back. Erik grinded his teeth, the entire mattress vibrating with his rich and beastly growls. His godly vocals massaged Christine's shivering, little form, wrapping her within an invisible and inescapable embrace. The possessive hold of Erik's voice was dark and disturbing, sensual and dangerously exciting…

Witnessing the voice of God's fairest angel, emerge from the mouth of the devil, was a morbid wonder in itself.

He continued to rip the flesh off of his face.

"Erik? What, pray, are you doing to yourself?"

"Unmasking Erik!" Erik's chest rumbled with his thunderous laughter. Every last hair on the back of Christine's neck stood perfectly erect, saluting Erik's mad desperation. Such horror! Christine was broken out in a plague of goose-flesh. Her skin seemed to shrivel, constrict and crawl; the baritone of Erik's voice roared and boomed, holding the audacity of a vengeful God—while maintaining all the divine beauty of Heaven.

"HA HA! Erik is only tearing away this mask! Do not fret so, my dearest!"

She could not stomach such a thing. Bile rose into her throat, and pain swelled the four chambers of her heart. Christine clobbered Erik with her fists, raining down with all of her might. She was poor competition against Erik's angst, as she made an attempt to stop his manic and cruel infliction. "I tire of it, Christine! I tire of masks! I am tired of it!"

"Cease this torment, or I swear you shall be your death!"

"Silly girl," the demon stated through his wickedest and most sinister chuckle, "I am already long dead!"

Christine collapsed to the crutch of her knees, crouching at his bedside. Her hands grasped together, as if in prayer, as she implored Erik.

Christine's devastating voice was no more than one long, mournful cry:

"Please, Erik, please! You must stop this! Don't you see? I have saved you in spite of myself! I have saved you in spite of the horror which you inspire within me! I have saved you—the murderer of my one and only love! I have saved you from your own tortures, your own evil genius! I have saved you from your terrible torture-chamber!"

Christine's eyes fell downcast; she certainly had not intended to speak so quickly nor with such great honesty. She sighed and dipped the torn hem from one of her dresses into a wash-bin which sat beside her; she carefully cleansed the bloody pulp that was Erik's face, patting his chest and hydrating the creature—far too aware that his entire form was shaking in violent sobs.

"Shhh." Christine grabbed hold of Erik's wrist with her free hand in an attempt to sedate his nerves. She betrayed herself and shuddered at the disturbing sight; her fingers had coiled around his inhumanly thin wrist, enveloping it completely.

"You are terribly fragile, Erik…much like the delicate strings of a harp…or the slender bow of the violin. I dare say you would not treat your beloved instruments with such cruelty." Seeing he was quite docile, she shrugged her handsome shoulders and continued her ministrations. "You, too, are a sort of instrument. Can you truly deny that, Erik?"

The faintest trace of a smile curled his twisted and malformed lips.

"At last your fever is breaking," she discretely murmured, speaking absently to herself. Christine tossed the torn garment to her feet with a shallow sigh; it vanished out of her gentle and lovely hands, plopping back into the wash-bin with a tiny splash. "Perhaps…just perhaps…there is a ray of hope after all."

Erik cried out as a tiny, quivering fingertip traced the length of an exceptionally gruesome whiplash. "Poor Erik!"

She shook her pretty head violently from side to side. "Poor, poor Erik!" Lovely curls bounced about her creamy shoulders with her graceful and sympathetic movements. "My poor, unhappy Erik!"

Poor, unhappy Erik cried out once more, and the blackened sockets disappeared as his eyes blinked shut. He trembled, chest inflating and deflating with long, strained breaths.

Christine's fine brow crinkled as she apprehensively pulled her hand away. Her tone was light and oddly curious. "My touch…it gives you pain?"

"No," Erik seemed to moan, "not pain…"

His consciousness was slowly returning from its haze.

"Oh." A small, sad smile came to her lips. A discrete and adorable maiden blush followed after. She guardedly resumed her tender and sensitive caresses. Christine failed to notice when her silk curls fell across the shaft of Erik's throbbing throat. She was hovering over him, a heavenly vision for Erik to behold. Her closeness would have been his death, had Erik been any more lucid. And what a glorious death it would have been, burned beneath the passionate flames of Don Juan!

She dared to trace the ridge of his gruesome scar once more, bravery fueled by a mysterious emotion. Her voice was hauntingly composed, remaining infinitely lovely. "But you have known pain." She bobbed her face back and forth as her eyes swelled with an imminent storm of tears. "You have known much pain."

Her fingertip moved away, skimming to another nearby whiplash, grazing it with an equally deft and gentle touch. "And you have given pain to many."

Erik's breathing was labored; he was panting, fighting off her caresses in a halfhearted attempt, confused and conflicted…quite lightheaded and beyond nauseous. Christine cupped one of his rising and falling rib bones, her palm curling around it, sliding down the unsightly protuberance. "Your pain…has given much pain."

"Yes," Erik agreed with an elongated groan. "I delight in giving pain. You are right to be afraid of your Erik. Christine ought to be very, very afraid."

"But he could never hurt me," she responded in quick reply, "I see it…in Erik's eyes…and I hear it…in the beauty of Erik's music. And you…" Her free hand ran over his sternum in a feathery and almost ticklish caress. "You expect my touch shall give you pain."

Tears came to Erik as he gasped, stiffened, and madly clutched at the bed sheet. He neurotically twisted and wrung the material between his bony fingertips. His beautiful and tormented voice emerged from the depths of a tortured soul.

"I do not _expect_ your touch!" He was wheezing, his terrible body rocking and forth…back and forth…back and forth…to and fro…like some madman. Between the ghoulish horror of his appearance and his erratic behavior, he looked every bit possessed.

"NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER! NEVER, EVER!"

Defeated, his neck lolled to the side as he caught his breath. "Poor Christine! Erik would not be so cruel! Christine, Christine, Christine! Never would he be! NEVER, EVER, EVER!"

Burning tears seethed from the two, black holes, drenching the pillow's fine Persian silk. His voice softened indefinitely; it sounded like a gentle lullaby, soothing and peaceful. Christine's eyes drifted shut, lost to its surreal beauty. "Oh, Christine…you shan't think so low of your Erik. Even he is more man than that."

It was an odd and tragic choice of words, loaded with endless innuendos…paradoxical and undeniably appropriate. They broke Christine's heart.

"Please, Erik…you really mustn't say such things."

A moment of silence passed by. Erik was silent and still…deadly quiet and as still as death. Christine checked his pulse.

"Why…why save…me? Why? Why? Why?"

"I cannot say. And I cannot say that I have no regret for sparing you. But it was I who was truly murdering you…it was I who was silencing your voice. In spite of myself…I could not endure such a thing. I could not murder the man who had once given me life."

Erik sprang to life with a sudden burst of energy. Skeletal fingers bunched and grabbed handfuls of her dress, fisting the fine material in a panicked frenzy. Erik tugged, overpowering his fatigue—impressively anchoring himself up and into a sitting position. The stench of his breath burned Christine's porcelain, tear-stained cheeks. She gawked; her pretty face flushed and fell to the side, her eyes wide with a renewed terror.

"Erik has only wanted you to live! YOU MUST LIVE! Erik has been dead since birth! NOT Christine, NOT SHE! LIVE AND LET LIVE, DARLING SONGBIRD!"

A choked sob took both Erik and Christine by utter surprise. She betrayed her gentle nature, shoving Erik off of her in a harsh and uncharacteristic motion; he whimpered, rolled away and collapsed onto the bed. Erik curled into a pitiful and tight fetus position, as if he meant to escape Christine's scorn that way—and she could not say if he was shaking from his pain or tears. And, in that brutal moment, she found she did not care.

"I want to hear you say it." Her voice was icy and frightfully steady, vacant of any and all emotion.

Erik pouted and madly shook his face like a disobedient child. He buried his face into a pillow, staining it with his blood. Erik's fists wound into menacing balls; he pounded at the mattress in a vicious requiem, his ghoulish body flailing about.

"Say it!"

"Erik knows not what you ask! So he says nothing!"

"You know _precisely _what I ask."

Erik stubbornly folded both of his arms over his head, groaning, hiding from the penetration of her glare. He hollered, wailed and screamed, his tantrum vastly escalating.

"Do not torture Erik so! He cannot bear it! Oh, Christine! He cannot bear such things! Christine! Be a good girl!"

"SAY IT," she hissed through her clenched jaw and grinding teeth. "Say it or _I shall take back my soul_ and leave you here to rot forevermore!"

What…what had she said? An intense and haunting silence immediately followed.

"Erik killed the boy." It was no more than a pitiful whisper, barely audible and muffled by the fluffed pillow.

"Say it with conviction." Christine peeled his arms away. "Say it into my eyes."

Erik looked up at her. It was a terrible sight…a sight which would never leave her mind…a sight which Christine would not soon forget. Tears streamed down his hollow and skinless cheeks. The black eye sockets bore deeply into the blue of Christine's sapphire gaze, brimming with an unbearable sadness and sorrow, reaching far beyond the depths of her conflicted soul.

_"I killed Raoul de Chagny."_

"Yes, Erik," she sadly sighed. "Yes, you did."

She bravely took one of Erik's pasty and grotesque hands into her grasp, squeezing it with rough affection. Christine gazed down at Erik's hideousness, looking upon the crimes of humanity with a heavy, trembling heart. Fresh blood was seething from the raw facial scars. His white pallor was covered in perspiration and repulsive rashes. Christine's veins froze over in an unexpected state of anger. Erik was a grim reminder of the human race's capacity for cruelty. What sort of travesty had the human race committed?

Her lips trembled. Her pale little hand disappeared within Erik's ghastly clasp of death. She stared at their united grip for what seemed an eternity.

"I shall never grant you my forgiveness. Such sins cannot be redeemed. Your hands can never be washed of his blood nor my tears." Erik dared not speak. She tensed, pausing a moment before resuming her words. "I fear that I am attached to you with ties far stronger than reason can break. It is my eternal curse." She shuddered, choking on a suppressed cry. "I loved him! I had loved him so! I love him still. Raoul has my heart…"

A solitary tear slipped down the curve of her ivory cheek; Erik followed its clear trail as it vanished into the crevice of her parted lips. Her lips were beautiful.

"But you, Erik…you shall forever have my soul…"

She gently placed Erik's cold hand—_a hand which smelt of death_—over her breast, as if making a present of her spirit. Her eyes twinkled and curtsied like a pair of crystal diamonds, alleviating the darkness of her Louis-Philippe prison.

"Erik, I have given you my soul."

The combination of Christine's soothing voice, heavenly words and foreign touch was something which Erik could not endure. He wailed and howled at the onslaught of her intimacy. Erik's dreadful face buried into the pillow. His fingers shamefully curled into his palm; the steady rhythm of Christine's heart thumped against his quivering hand—its beat strong and promising.

"Pitiful creature of darkness," rasped the breathtaking angel, "what kind of life have you known?"

Christine was closing in on Erik. Never had she been so impossibly close…no, not on her own accord…no, not without crying…no, not without recoiling in horror and disgust. Her delicate, feminine essence filled the black hole that was Erik's nose, flooding him with a sweet intoxication. Tears splashed onto the gruesome death's head in a requiem. Erik gasped and drew back instantly. Porcelain hands wrapped, locked and stabilized his terrible skull. Her fingertips caressed either side of his face.

What…what was that?

A bright illumination had caught the corner of Erik's eye. Christine's golden ring brilliantly came to life. She had placed it onto his wedding finger during his unconsciousness, he knew now…during that time, that strange and indescribable time, she had sealed her fate forever…during that time when she believed Erik to be dead…during that time when she was sure she had lost her Angel of Music…

It had been a time of personal reflection and the unmasking of the inevitable, ugly, God-honest truth: _"I fear that I am attached to you with ties far stronger than reason can break. It is my eternal curse…"_

"My poor Erik. My dark angel…"

They were so close…intimately near. A dream? He could not tell.

"Oh, Christine…dear, sweet Christine. _I love you_…"

Her breath warmed his cheeks and heart, piercing the expanse of black in a pasty cloud, melting the icicles which had clung to Erik's forsaken soul for fifty-five years. Tears mingled together and troubled souls consummated, as both Christine and Erik shared in their tragedy. They were two inherently beautiful and star-crossed angels.

That small inner voice, which had often plagued her mind and manipulated her heart, whispered three last words:_ "Forgive me, Raoul…"_

And then…the most exquisite and unlikely thing happened. Two miracles had occurred in one day; Erik was saved a second time. Christine Daaé's lips tentatively pressed against his forehead in a deft, gentle, and painfully chaste kiss…just barely.

_(a/n: No torture-chamber scene…is that disappointing to anyone? I thought this might be an interesting, slightly unexpected way to go…but I could still stick in next chapter. I hope that what occurred in this chapter made sense, as well as Christine's reasoning for developing some compassion/love for Erik! A lack of reviews would never ever keep me from updating…but I can assure that they do wonders for my inspiration! Hehe. Love you, my beloved phans!)_


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